iiiiili  i! 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


•  J 


POEMS 


JOHN    G.    SAXE. 


FIFTH  EDITIOX,  ENLARGED. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS, 

M  DCCC  LIV. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  ot  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

JOHN  G.  SAXE, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED    AT    THI 


2720 


PS 


TO    HON.    GEORGE    P.    MARSH, 


DEAB  Sin, 

I  dedicate  this  little  Volume  to  you,  not  in  your  capacity  as  the  honored 

,-^  Representative  of  your  country  at  a  Foreign  Court,  nor  yet  in  your  higher  character,  as 
one  of  the  foremost  scholars  of  the  age ;  but  rather,  as  is  mere  befitting,  iu  token  of  my 
esteem  for  your  private  virtues,  and  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  your  personal  friend- 
ship.  I  hesitate  less  to  avail  myself  of  your  kind  permission  to  use  your  name  in  this 
place,  since  it  was  greatly  owing  to  your  flattering  judgment  of  my  first  elaborate  essay  at 
verse  writing,  that  other  pieces  were  subsequently  undertaken,  and  that  these  are  now 
here  collected.  In  christening  the  book,  I  have  chosen,  for  several  reasons,  to  conform  to 
the  customary  nomenclature  which  allows  every  kind  of  literature  to  be  'Poetry,'  that  il 
not  written  in  the  fashion  of  prose ;  yet  I  have  no  quarrel  with  that  nicer  rule  of  modern 
criticism  which  assigns  to  all  metrical  compositions  of  a  mainly  facetious  or  satirical  char- 
acter, a  place  rather  on  the  border  than  fairly  within  the  domain  of  legitimate  poesy.  If 
I  have  excluded  several  trifles  which  some  of  my  friends  would  like  to  have  seen  with  the 
rest,  it  was  because  I  could  not  afford  to  make  the  volume  larger  at  any  risk  of  making  it 
worse.  Should  the  verses  which  I  have  ventured  to  retain,  receive,  in  their  present  form, 
the  favor  which  has  been  accorded  to  most  of  the  poems  separately,  I  am  very  sure  no  one 
will  be  more  grataied  than  yourself,  —  except  it  be 

Tour  sincere  Friend,  and  humble  Servant, 

JOHX    GODFREY    SAXE. 
BUBLIKOTOK,  VKBMOBT,  1849. 


(5) 


CONTENTS. 


PROGRESS :  A  SATIRE,     .  9 

NOTES, 33 

THE  PROUD  MISS  MAC  BRIDE, 35 

THE  BRIEFLESS  BARRISTER 52 

RHYME  OF  THE  RAIL, 55 

A  NEW  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK.    ...  ....    59 

A  RHYMED  EPISTLE,       .  ...    77 

THE  DOG  -DAYS,         ....  81 

A  CLASSIC  CONTROVERSY, 83 

THE  GHOST-PLAYER, 84 

ON  AN  ILL-READ  LAWYER 87 

A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR,  ...  .88 

BOYS, .93 

WOMAN'S  WILL,        . 94 

THE  COLD  WATER-MAN .95 

THE  DAGUERREOTYPE, 98 

A  COLLEGE  REMINISCENCE, 99 

FAMILY  QUARRELS, 102 

SONNET  TO  A  CLAM, 103 


8  CONTENTS. 

A  REASONABLE  PETITION, .  104 

GUNEOPATHY 105 

A  PHILOSOPHICAL  QUERY 107 

COMIC  MISERIES,  108 

THE  OLD  CHAPEL  BELL, 119 

THE  LADY  ANN 118 

GIRLHOOD 123 

BEREAVEMENT, 125 

MY  BOYHOOD 126 

THE   TIMES, 129 

NOTES,        .  153 

CARMEN  KETUM .155 

THE  DEVIL  OF  NAMES, 1G2 

PHAETHON, 169 

PYRAMUS  AND  THISBE 176 

POLYPHEMUS  AND  ULYSSES, K1 

ORPHEUS  AJiD  EURYDICE, 187 


PROGRESS:    A    SATIRE. 


POEMS. 


PROGRESS: 

A     SATIRE. 

Ix  this,  our  happy  and  '  progressive '  age, 
When  all  alike  ambitious  cares  engage  ; 
When  beardless  boys  to  sudden  sages  grow, 
And  '  Miss '  her  nurse  abandons  for  a  beau  ; 
WThen  for  their  dogmas  Non-Resistants  fight. 
When  dunces  lecture,  and  when  dandies  write 
When,  martial  honors  to  the  children  thrown, 
Each  five-foot  minor  is  a  '  Major  '  grown  ; 
When  matrons,  seized  with  oratoric  pangs, 
Give  happy  birth  to  masculine  harangues, 
And  spinsters,  trembling  for  the  nation's  fate, 
Neglect  their  stockings  to  preserve  the  State  ; 


12  PROGRESS: 

When  critic-wits  their  brazen  lustre  shed 
On  golden  authors  whom  they  never  read, 
With  parrot  praise  of  '  Roman  grandeur'  speak, 
And  in  bad  English  eulogize  the  Greek  ; 
When  facts  like  these  no  reprehension  bring, 
May  not,  uncensured,  an  Attorney  sing? 
In  sooth  he  may  ;  and  though  '.unborn '  to  climb 
Parnassus'  heights,  and  '  build  the  lofty  rhyme,' 
Though  FLACCUS  fret,  and  warningly  advise 
That '  middling  verses  gods  and  men  despise,' 
Yet  will  he  sing,  to  Yankee  license  true, 
In  spite  of  Horace  and  '  Minerva '  too  ! 

My  theme  is  PROGRESS,  —  never-tiring  themo 
Of  prosing  d illness,  and  poetic  dream  ; 
Beloved  of  Optimists,  who  still  protest 
Whatever  happens,  happens  for  the  best ; 
Who  prate  of  '  evil '  as  a  thing  unknown, 
A  fancied  color,  or  a  seeming  tone, 
A  vague  chimera  cherished  by  the  dull, 
The  empty  product  of  an  emptier  skull. 
Expert  logicians  they  !  —  to  sbow  at  will, 
By  ill  philosophy,  that  nought  is  ill  ! 
Should  some  sly  rogue,  the  city's  constant  curse, 
Deplete  your  pocket  and  relieve  your  purse, 


13 


Or  if,  approaching  with  ill-omened  tread, 

Some  bolder  burglar  break  your  house  and  head, 

Hold,  friend,  thy  rage  !  nay,  let  the  rascal  flee, 

No  evil  has  been  done  the  world,  or  thee  : 

Here  comes  Philosophy  will  make  it  plain 

Thy  seeming  loss  is  universal  gain  ! 

'  Thy  heap  of  gold  was  clearly  grown  too  great,  — 

'Twere  best  the  poor  should  share  thy  large  estate  ; 

While  misers  gather,  that  the  knaves  should  steal, 

Is  most  conducive  to  the  general  weal ; 

Thus  thieves  the  wrongs  of  avarice  efface, 

And  stand  the  friends  and  stewards  of  the  race  ; 

Thus  every  moral  ill  but  serves,  in  fact, 

Some  other  equal  ill  to  counteract.' 

Sublime  Philosophy  !  —  benignant  light ! 

Which  sees  in  every  pair  of  wrongs,  a  right ; 

Which  finds  no  evil  or  in  sin  or  pain, 

And  proves  that  decalogues  are  writ  in  vain  ! 

Hail,  mighty  PROGRESS  !  —  loftiest  we  find 
Thy  stalking  strides  in  science  of  the  mind. 
What  boots  it  now  that  LOCKE  was  learned  and  wise  ? 
What  boots  it  now  that  men  have  ears  and  eyes  ? 
'  Pure  Reason  '  in  their  stead  now  hears  and  sees, 
And  walks  apart  in  stately  scorn  of  these  ; 


14  PROGRESS : 

Laughs  at '  experience,'  spurns  '  induction '  hence, 

Scouting  '  the  senses,'  and  transcending  sense. 

No  more  shall  flippant  ignorance  inquire, 

'  If  German  breasts  may  feel  poetic  fire,' 

Nor  German  dulness  write  ten  folios  full 

To  show,  for  once,  that' Dutchmen  are  not  dull.1 

For  here  Philosophy,  acute,  refined, 

Sings  all  the  marvels  of  the  human  mind 

In  strains  so  passing  '  dainty  sweet'  to  hear, 

That  e'en  the  nursery  turns  a  ravished*  ear! 

Here  Wit  and  Fancy  in  scholastic  bowers, 

Twine  beauteous  wreaths  of  metaphysic  flowers  ; 

Here  Speculation  pours  her  dazzling  light, 

Here  grand  Invention  wings  a  daring  flight, 

And  soars  ambitious  to  the  lofty  moon, 

Whence,  haply,  freighted  with  some  precious  boon 

Some  old  '  Philosophy '  in  fog  incased, 

Or  new  '  Keligion  '  for  the  changing  taste, 

She  straight  descends  to  Learning's  blest  abodes, 

Just  simultaneous  with  the  Paris  modes  ! 

Here  PLATO'S  dogmas  eloquently  speak, 

Not  as  of  yore,  in  grand  and  graceful  Greek, 

But,  (quite  beyond  the  dreaming  sage's  hope 

Of  future  glory  in  his  fancy's  scope,) 

Translated  down,  as  by  some  wizard  touch, 

Find  '  immortality  '  in  good  high  Dutch  ! 


A    SATIRE.  15 

Happy  the  youth,  in  this  our  golden  age, 
Condemned  no  more  to  con  the  prosy  page 
Of  LOCKE  and  BACON,  antiquated  fools 
Now  justly  banished  from  our  moral  schools. 
By  easier  modes  philosophy  is  taught, 
Than  through  the  medium  of  laborious  thought. 
Imagination  kindly  serves  instead, 
And  saves  the  pupil  many  an  aching  head. 
Room  for  the  sages  !  —  hither  comes  a  throng 
Of  blooming  Platos  trippingly  along. 
In  dress  how  fitted  to  beguile  the  fair  ! 
What  intellectual,  stately  heads  —  of  hair  ! 
Hark  to  the  Oracle  !  —  to  Wisdom's  tone 
Breathed  in  a  fragrant  zephyr  of  Cologne. 
That  boy  in  gloves,  the  leader  of  the  van, 
Talks  of  the  '  outer '  and  the  '  inner  man,' 
And  knits  his  girlish  brow  in  stout  resolve 
Some  mountain-sized  '  idea  '  to  '  evolve.' 
Delusive  toil  !  —  thus  in  their  infant  days, 
When  children  mimic  manly  deeds  in  plays, 
Long  will  they  sit,  and  eager,  '  bob  for  whale,' 
Within  the  ocean  of  a  water  pail ! 
The  next,  whose  looks  unluckily  reveal 
The  ears  portentous  that  his  locks  conceal, 
Prates  of  the  '  orbs'  with  such  a  knowing  frown, 
You  deem  he  puffs  some  lithographic  town 


16  PROGRESS: 

In  Western  wilds,  where  yet  unbroken  ranks 

Of  thrifty  beavers  build  unchartered  '  banks,' 

And  prowling  panthers  occupy  the  lots 

Adorned  with  churches  on  the  paper  plots  ! 

But  ah  !  what  suffering  harp  is  this  we  hear  ? 

What  jarring  sounds  invade  the  wounded  ear? 

Who  o'er  the  lyre  a  hand  spasmodic  flings, 

And  grinds  harsh  discord  from  the  tortured  strings  ? 

The  Sacred  Muses  at  the  sound  dismayed, 

Retreat  disordered  to  their  native  shade, 

And  PHCEBTTS  hastens  to  his  high  abode, 

And  ORPHEUS  frowns  to  hear  an  *  Orphic  ode  ! ' 

Talk  not,  ye  jockeys,  of  the  wondrous  speed 
That  marks  your  northern  or  your  southern  steed  : 
See  Progress  fly  o'er  Education's  course ! 
Not  far-famed  Derby  owns  a  fleeter  horse  ! 
On  rare  Improvement's  '  short  and  easy '  road, 
How  swift  her  flight  to  Learning's  blest  abode  ! 
In  other  times,  —  'twas  many  years  ago,  — 
The  scholar's  course  was  toilsome,  rough,  and  slow, 
The  fair  Humanities  were  sought  in  tears, 
And  came,  the  trophy  of  laborious  years. 
Now  Learning's  shrine  each  idle  youth  may  seek, 
And,  spending  there  a  shilling  and  a  week, 


A    SATIRE.  17 

(At  lightest  cost  of  study,  cash,  and  lungs,) 
Come  back,  like  Rumor,  with  a  hundred  tongues ! 

What  boots  such  progress,  when  the  golden  load 
From  heedless  haste  is  lost  upon  the  road  ? 
When  each  great  science,  to  the  student's  pace, 
Stands  like  the  wicket,  in  a  hurdle  race, 
Which  to  o'erleap,  is  all  the  courser's  mind, 
And  all  his  glory,  that  'tis  left  behind  ! 

Nor  less,  O  Progress,  are  thy  newest  rules 
Enforced  and  honored  in  the  '  Ladies'  Schools  ; ' 
Where  Education,  in  its  nobler  sense, 
Gives  place  to  Learning's  shallowest  pretence  ; 
Where  hapless  maids,  in  spite  of  wish  or  taste, 
On  vain  '  accomplishments '  their  moments  waste  ; 
By  cruel  parents  here  condemned  to  wrench 
Their  tender  throats  in  mispronouncing  French  ; 
Here  doomed  to  force,  by  unrelenting  knocks, 
Reluctant  music  from  a  tortured  box  ; 
Here  taught,  in  inky  shades  and  rigid  lines, 
To  perpetrate  equivocal  '  designs  ; ' 
'  Drawings  '  that  prove  their  title  plainly  true, 
By  showing  nature  '  drawn,'  and  '  quartered '  too  ! 
2 


18  PROGRESS 

In  ancient  times,  I've  heard  my  grandam  tell, 

Young  maids  were  taught  to  read,  and  write,  and  spell ; 

(Neglected  arts !  once  learned  by  rigid  rules, 

As  prime  essentials  in  the  '  common  schools.') 

Well  taught  beside  in  many  a  useful  art 

To  mend  the  manners  and  improve  the  heart ; 

Nor  yet  unskilled  to  turn  the  busy  wheel, 

To  ply  the  shuttle,  and  to  twirl  the  reel, 

Could  thrifty  tasks  with  cheerful  grace  pursue, 

Themselves  '  accomplished,'  and  their  duties  too. 

Of  tongues,  each  maiden  had- but  one,  'tis  said, 

(Enough,  'twas  thought,  to  serve  a  lady's  head,) 

But  that  was  ENGLISH,  —  great  and  glorious  tongue 

That  CHATHAM  spoke,  and  MILTON,  SHAKSPEARE,  sung  ! 

Let  thoughts  too  idle  to  be  fitly  dressed 

In  sturdy  Saxon,  be  in  French  expressed ; 

Let  lovers  breathe  Italian,  —  like,  in  sooth, 

Its  singers,  soft,  emasculate,  and  smooth  ; 

But  for  a  tongue,  whose  ample  powers  embrace 

Beauty  and  force,  sublimity  and  grace, 

Ornate  or  plain,  harmonious,  yet  strong, 

And  formed  alike  for  eloquence  and  song, 

Give  me  the  ENGLISH,  —  aptest  tongue  to  paint 

A  sage  or  dunce,  a  villain  or  a  saint, 


19 


To  spur  the  slothful,  counsel  the  distressed, 

To  lash  the  oppressor,  and  to  soothe  the  oppressed, 

To  lend  fantastic  Humor  freest  scope 

To  marshal  all  his  laughter-moving  troop, 

Give  Pathos  power,  and  Fancy  lightest  wings, 

And  Wit  his  merriest  whims  and  keenest  stings  ! 

The  march  of  Progress  let  the  Muse  explore 
In  pseudo-science,  and  empiric  lore. 
O,  sacred  Science  !  how  art  thou  profaned, 
When  shallow  quacks,  and  vagrants,  unrestrained, 
Flaunt  in  thy  robes,  and  vagabonds  are  known 
To  brawl  thy  name,  who  never  wrote  their  own  ; 
When  crazy  theorists  their  addled  schemes, 
(Unseemly  product  of  dyspeptic  dreams,) 
Impute  to  thee  !  —  as  courtesans  of  yore 
Their  spurious  bantlings  left  at  Mars's  door  ; 
When  each  projector  of  a  patent  pill, 
Or  happy  founder  of  a  coffee-mill, 
Invokes  thine  aid  to  celebrate  his  wares, 
And  crown  with  gold  his  philanthropic  cares ; 
Thus  Islam's  hawkers  piously  proclaim 
Their  figs  and  pippins  in  the  Prophet's  name  ! 

Some  sage  Physician,  studious  to  advance 
The  art  of  healing,  and  its  praise  enhance, 


20  PROGRESS  : 

By  observation  'scientific,1  finds, 
(What  else  were  hidden  from  inferior  minds,) 
That  WATER'S  useful  in  a  thousand  ways, 
To  cherish  health,  and  lengthen  out  our  days  ; 
A  mighty  solvent  in  its  simple  scope, 
And  quite  '  specific '  with  Castilian  soap  ! 
The  doctor's  labors  let  the  thoughtless  scorn, 
See  !  a  new  '  science  '  to  the  world  is  born  ; 

*  Disease  is  dirt !  all  pain  the  patient  feels 
Is  but  the  soiling  of  the  vital  wheels ; 

To  wash  away  all  particles  impure, 
And  cleanse  the  system,  plainly  is  to  cure  ! ' 
Thus  shouts  the  doctor,  eloquent,  and  proud 
To  teach  his  '  science  '  to  the  gaping  crowd  ; 
Like  '  Father  Mathew,'  eager  to  allure 
Afflicted  mortals  to  his  *  water  cure ! ' 

'Tis  thus  that  modern  *  sciences  '  are  made, 
By  bold  assumption,  puffing,  and  parade. 
Take  three  stale  '  truths  ; '  a  dozen  '  facts,'  assumed  ; 
Two  known  *  effects,'  and  fifty  more  presumed ; 

*  Affinities  '  a  score,  to  sense  unknown, 
And,  just  as  '  lucus,  non  lucendo  '  shown, 
Add  but  a  name  of  pompous  Anglo-Greek, 
And  only  not  impossible  to  speak, 


21 


The  work  is  done  ;  a  '  science '  stands  confest, 
And  countless  welcomes  greet  the  queenly  guest 

In  closest  girdle,  O  reluctant  Muse, 
In  scantiest  skirts,  and  lightest-stepping  shoes,2 
Prepare  to  follow  FASHION'S  gay  advance, 
And  thread  the  mazes  of  her  motley  dance ; 
And  marking  well  each  momentary  hue, 
And  transient  form,  that  meets  the  wondering  view, 
In  kindred  colors,  gentle  Muse,  essay 
Her  Protean  phases  fitly  to  portray. 
To-day,  she  slowly  drags  a  cumbrous  trail, 
And  '  Tom '  rejoices  in  its  length  of  tail ; 
To-morrow,  changing  her  capricious  sport, 
She  trims  her  flounces  just  as  much  too  short ; 
To-day,  right  jauntily,  a  hat  she  wears 
That  scarce  affords  a  shelter  to  her  ears  ; 
To-morrow,  haply,  searching  long  in  vain, 
You  spy  her  features  down  a  Leghorn  lane  ; 
To-day,  she  glides  along  with  queenly  grace, 
To-morrow,  ambles  in  a  mincing  pace  ; 
To-day,  erect,  she  loves  a  martial  air, 
And  envious  train-bands  emulate  the  fair  ; 
To-morrow,  changing  as  her  whim  may  serve, 
'  She  stoops  to  conquer '  in  a  '  Grecian  curve.' 3 


22  PROGRESS  : 

To-day,  with  careful  negligence  arrayed, 
In  scanty  folds  of  woven  zephyrs  made, 
She  moves  like  Dian  in  her  woody  bowers, 
Or  Flora  floating  o'er  a  bed  of  flowers  ; 
To-morrow,  laden  with  a  motley  freight 
Of  startling  bulk  and  formidable  weight, 
She  waddles  forth,  ambitious  to  amaze 
The  vulgar  crowd,  who  giggle  as  they  gaze  ! 

Despotic  Fashion !  potent  is  her  sway, 
Whom  half  the  world  full  loyally  obey, 
Kings  bow  submissive  to  her  stern  decrees, 
And  proud  Republics  bend  their  necks  and  knees ; 
Where'er  we  turn  the  attentive  eye,  is  seen 
The  worshipped  presence  of  the  modish  queen  ! 
In  Dress,  Philosophy,  Religion,  Art, 
Whate'er  employs  the  head,  or  hand,  or  heart. 

In  some  fine  lady  quite  o'ercome  with  woes, 
From  an  unyielding  pimple  on  her  nose, — 
Some  unaccustomed  '  buzzing  in  her  ears,' 
Or  other  marvel  to  alarm  her  fears  ? 
Fashion,  with  skill  and  judgment  ever  nice, 
At  once  advises  '  medical  advice  ; ' 
Then  names  her  doctor,  who,  arrived  in  haste, 
Proceeds  accordant  with  the  laws  of  taste. 


A   SATIRE.  23 

If  real  ills  afflict  the  modish  dame, 

Her  blind  idolatry  is  still  the  same ; 

Less  grievous  far,  she  deems  it,  to  endure 

Genteel  mal-practice,  than  a  vulgar  cure. 

If,  spits  of  gilded  pills  and  golden  fees, 

Her  dear  dyspepsia  grows  a  dire  disease, 

And  Doctor  DAPPER  proves  a  shallow  rogue, 

The  world  must  own  that  both  were  much  in  vogue ! 

What  impious  mockery,  when,  with  soulless  art, 
Fashion,  intrusive,  seeks  to  rule  the  heart;    .. 
Directs  how  grief  may  tastefully  be  borne  ; 
Instructs  Bereavement  just  how  long  to  mourn  ; 
Shows  Sorrow  how  by  nice  degrees  to  fade, 
And  marks  its  measure  in  a  ribbon's  shade  ! 
More  impious  still,  when,  through  her  wanton  laws, 
She  desecrates  Religion's  sacred  cause  ; 
Shows  how  '  the  narrow  road  '  is  easiest  trod, 
And  how,  genteelest,  worms  may  worship  God  ; 
How  sacred  rites  may  bear  a  worldly  grace, 
And  self-abasement  wear  a  haughty  face  ; 
How  sinners,  long  in  Folly's  mazes  whirled, 
With  pomp  and  splendor  may  '  renounce  the  world  ;' 
How,  '  with  all  saints  hereafter  to  appear,' 
Yet  quite  escape  the  vulgar  portion  here ! 


24  PROGRESS  : 

Imperial  Fashion  !  her  impartial  care, 
Things  most  momentous,  and  most  trivial,  share. 
Now  crushing  conscience  (her  invet'rate  foe), 
And  now  a  waist,  and  now,  perchance,  a  toe ; 
At  once  for  pistols  and  '  the  Polka '  votes, 
And  shapes  alike  our  characters  and  coats  ; 
The  gravest  question  which  the  world  divides, 
And  lightest  riddle,  in  a  breath  decides  : 

*  If  wrong  may  not,  by  circumstance,  be  right,'  — • 

*  If  black  cravats  be  more  genteel  than  white,'  — 

*  If,  by  her  "  bishop,"  or  her  "  grace,"  alone, 
A  genuine  lady,  or  a  church,  is  known  ; '  — 
Problems  like  these,  she  solves  with  graceful  air, 
At  once  a  casuist  and  a  connoisseur  ! 

Does  some  sleek  knave,  whom  magic  money-bags 
Have  raised  above  his  fellow-knaves  in  rags, 
Some  willing  minion  of  unblushing  Vice, 
Who  boasts  that '  Virtue  ever  has  her  price,'  — 
Does  he,  unpitying,  blast  thy  sister's  fame, 
Or  doom  thy  daughter  to  undying  shame, 
To  bow  her  head  beneath  the  eye  of  scorn, 
And  droop  and  wither  in  her  maiden  morn  ? 
Fashion  '  regrets,'  declares  *  'twas  very  wrong,' 
And,  quite  dejected,  hums  an  opera  song  ! 


A   SATIRE.  25 

Impartial  friend  !  your  cause  to  her  appealed, 

Yourself  and  foe  she  summons  to  the  field, 

Where  Honor  carefully  the  case  observes, 

And  nicely  weighs  it  in  a  scale  of  nerves  ! 

Despotic  rite  !  whose  fierce  vindictive  reign 

Boasts,  unrebuked,  its  countless  victims  slam, 

While  Christian  rulers,  recreant,  support 

The  pagan  honors  of  thy  bloody  court, 

And  '  Freedom's  champions  '  spurn  their  hallowed  trust, 

Kneel  at  thy  nod,  and  basely  lick  the  dust ! 

Degraded  Congress  !  once  the  honored  scene 
Of  patriot  deeds ;  where  men  of  solemn  mien, 
In  virtue  strong,  in  understanding  clear, 
Earnest,  though  courteous,  and  though  smooth,  sincere, 
To  gravest  counsels  lent  the  teeming  hours, 
And  gave  their  country  all  their  mighty  powers. 
But  times  are  changed  ;  a  rude,  degenerate  race 
Usurp  the  seats,  and  shame  the  sacred  place. 
Here  plotting  demagogues,  with  zeal  defend 
The  '  people's  rights,'  —  to  gain  some  private  end  ; 
Here  southern  youths,  on  Folly's  surges  tost, 
Their  fathers'  wisdom  eloquently  boast ; 
(So  dowerless  spinsters  proudly  number  o'er 
The  costly  jewels  that  their  grandams  wore.) 
3 


26  PROGRESS  : 

Here,  would-be  TITLLYS  pompously  parade 

Their  tumid  tropes  for  simple  '  Buncombe  '  made,4 

Full  on  the  chair  the  chilling  torrent  shower, 

And  work  their  word-pumps  through  the  allotted  hour. 

Deluded  '  Buncombe  ! '  while,  with  honest  praise, 

She  notes  each  grand  and  patriotic  phrase, 

And,  much  rejoicing  in  her  hopeful  son, 

Deems  all  her  own  the  laurels  he  has  won, 

She  little  dreams  how  brother  members  fled, 

And  left  the  house  as  vacant  as  his  head ! 

Here  rural  CHATHAMS,  eager  to  attest 

The  *  growing  greatness  of  the  mighty  West,' 

To  make  the  plainest  proposition  clear, 

Crack  PRISCIAN'S  head,  and  Mr.  SPEAKER'S  ear ; 

Then  closing  up  in  one  terrific  shout, 

Pour  all  their  '  wild-cats '  furiously  out ! 

Here  lawless  boors  with  ruffian  bullies  vie, 

Who  last  shall  give  the  rude,  insulting, '  lie,' 

While  '  Order  !  order! '  loud  the  chairman  calls, 

And  echoing  '  Order,'  every  member  bawls  ; 

Till  rising  high  in  rancorous  debate, 

And  higher  still  in  fierce  envenomed  hate,5 

Retorted  blows  the  scene  of  riot  crown, 

And  big  LYCURGUS  knocks  the  lesser  down  ! 


A   SATIRE.  27 

Ye  honest  dames  in  frequent  proverbs  named, 
For  finest  fish  and  foulest  English  famed, 
Whose  matchless  tongues,  'tis  said,  were  never  heard 
To  speak  a  flattering  or  a  feeble  word,  — 
Here  all  your  choice  invective  ye  might  urge 
Our  lawless  Solons  fittingly  to  scourge  ; 
Here,  in  congenial  company,  might  rail 
Till  quite  worn  out  your  creaking  voices  fail  — 
Unless,  indeed,  for  once  compelled  to  yield 
In  wordy  strife,  ye  vanquished  quit  the  field  ! 

Hail,  Social  Progress !  each  new  moon  is  rife 
With  some  new  theory  of  social  life, 
Some  matchless  scheme  ingeniously  designed 
From  half  their  miseries  to  free  mankind ; 
On  human  wrongs  triumphant  war  to  wage, 
And  bring  anew  the  glorious  golden  age. 
*  Association '  is  the  magic  word 
From  many  a  social  '  priest  and  prophet '  heard  ; 
'  Attractive  Labor  '  is  the  angel  given, 
To  render  earth  a  sublunary  Heaven  ! 
'  Attractive  Labor  ! '  ring  the  changes  round, 
And  labor  grows  attractive  in  the  sound  ; 
And  many  a  youthful  mind,  where  haply  lurk 
Un welcomed  fancies  at  the  name  of  '  work,' 


28  PROGRESS  : 

Sees  pleasant  pastime  in  its  longing  view 
Of  '  toil  made  easy '  and  '  attractive '  loo, 
And,  fancy-rapt,  with  joyful  ardor,  turns 
Delightful  grindstones,  and  seductive  churns  ! 
'  Men  are  not  bad,'  these  social  sages  preach, 
*  Men  are  not  what  their  actions  seem  to  teach  ; 
No  moral  ill  is  natural  or  fixed, — 
Men  only  err  by  being  badly  mixed  ! ' 
To  them  the  world  a  huge  plum-pudding  seems, 
Made  up  of  richest  viands,  fruits  and  creams, 
Which  of  all  choice  ingredients  partook, 
And  then  was  ruined  by  a  blundering  cook  ! 

Inventive  France  !  what  wonder-working  schemes 
Astound  the  world  whene'er  a  Frenchman  dreams. 
What  fine-spun  theories,  —  ingenious,  new, 
Sublime,  stupendous,  every  thing  but  true  ! 
One  little  favor,  O  '  Imperial  France,' 
Still  teach  the  world  to  cook,  to  dress,  to  dance  ; 
Let,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  boots  and  barbers  roam, 
But  keep  thy  morals  and  thy  creeds  at  home  ! 

O,  might  the  Muse  prolong  her  flowing  rhyme, 
(Too  closely  cramped  by  unrelenting  Time, 
Whose  dreadful  scythe  swings  heedlessly  along, 
And,  missing  speeches,  clips  the  thread  of  song,) 


29 


How  would  she  strive,  in  fitting  verse,  to  sing 
The  wondrous  Progress  of  the  Printing  King  ! 
Bibles  and  Novels,  Treatises  and  Songs, 
Lectures  on  '  Rights,'  and  Strictures  upon  Wrongs  ; 
Verse  in  all  metres,  Travels  in  all  climes, 
Rhymes  without  reason,  Sonnets  without  rhymes ; 
'  Translations  from  the  French,'  so  vilely  done, 
The  wheat  escaping,  leaves  the  chaff  alone  ; 
Memoirs,  where  dunces  sturdily  essay 
To  cheat  Oblivion  of  her  certain  prey ; 
Critiques,  where  pedants  vauntingly  expose 
Unlicensed  verses,  in  unlawful  prose  ; 
Lampoons,  whose  authors  strive  in  vain  to  throw 
Their  headless  arrows  from  a  nerveless  bow ; 
Poems  by  youths,  who,  crossing  Nature's  will, 
Harangue  the  landscape  they  were  born  to  till  ; 
Huge  tomes  of  Law,  that  lead  by  rugged  routes 
Through  ancient  dogmas  down  to  modern  doubts  ; 
Where  Judges,  oft,  with  well-affected  ease, 
Give  learned  reasons  for  absurd  decrees, 
Or,  more  ingenious  still,  contrive  to  found 
Some  just  decision  on  fallacious  ground, 
Or  blink  the  point,  and,  haply,  in  its  place, 
Moot  and  decide  some  hypothetic  case  ; 
Smart  Epigrams,  all  sadly  out  of  joint, 
And  pointless,  —  save  the  '  exclamation  point,' 


30  PROGRESS  : 

Which  stands  in  state,  with  vacant  wonder  fraught, 

The  pompous  tombstone  of  some  pauper  thought ; 

Ingenious  systems  based  on  doubtful  facts, 

'  Tracts  for  the  Times,'  and  most  untimely  tracts ; 

Polemic  Pamphlets,  Literary  Toys, 

And  Easy  Lessons  for  uneasy  boys  ; 

Hebdomadal  Gazettes,  and  Daily  News, 

Gay  Magazines,  and  Quarterly  Reviews  ; 

Small  portion  these,  of  all  the  vast  array 

Of  darkened  leaves  that  cloud  each  passing  day, 

And  pour  their  tide  unceasingly  along, 

A  gathering,  swelling,  overwhelming  throng  ! 

Cease,  O  my  Muse,  nor,  indiscreet,  prolong 
To  epic  length  thy  unambitious  song. 
Good  friends,  be  gentle  to  a  maiden  muse, 
Her  errors  pardon,  and  her  faults  excuse. 
Not  uninvited  to  her  task  she  came,6 
To  sue  for  favor,  not  to  seek  for  fame. 
Be  this,  at  least,  her  just  though  humble  praise, 
No  stale  excuses  heralded  her  lays, 
No  singers'  trick  —  conveniently  to  bring 
A  sudden  cough,  when  importuned  to  sing ; 7 
No  deprecating  phrases,  learned  by  rote,  — 
'  She'd  quite  forgot,'  or  '  never  knew  a  note,'  — 


31 


But  to  her  task,  with  ready  zeal  addressed 
Her  earnest  care,  and  aimed  to  do  her  best ; 
Strove  to  be  just  in  each  satiric  word, 
To  doubtful  wit,  undoubted  truth  preferred, 
To  please  and  profit  equally  has  aimed, 
Nor  been  ill-natured,  even  when  she  blamed. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  I.   Page  14. 
•  To  show  for  once,  that  Dutchmen  an  not  dud.' 

Pere  Bouhonn  seriously  asked  'if  a  German  could  be  a  «W  «pnt«     This  concise 
question  was  answered  by  Kramer,  in  a  ponderous  work  entitled  '  Tindicias  nominis  Qer- 


NOTE  2.   Page  21. 

'  In  closest  girdle,  0  reluctant  Mute, 
In  scantiest  skirts  and  lightest-stepping  shoes.' 

Imitated  from  the  opening  couplet  of  Holmes'«  •  Terpsichore,' 

•  In  narrowest  girdle,  0  reluctant  Sfuse, 
In  closest/rock  and  Cinderella  shoes.' 


NOTES.   Page 21. 
*  She  stoops  to  conquer  in  a  Grecian  cvrve.' 

Terence,  who  wrote  comedies  a  little  more  than  two  thousand  yean  ago,  thus  alludes  to 
this  and  a  kindred  custom  then  prevalent  among  the  Roman  girls :  — 

'  virgines,  quas  matres  student 

Demissis  humeris  esse,  vincto  corpora,  nt  graciles  flant' 

The  sense  of  the  passage  may  be  given  in  English,  with  sufficient  accuracy,  thus :  - 
Maidens,  whom  fond,  maternal  care  has  graced 
With  stooping  shoulders,  and  a  cinctured  waist. 

3  (33) 


NOTE  4.   Page  26. 
'  Their  tumid  tropes  for  simple  Buncombe  made.'1 

Many  readers,  who  have  heard  about  '  making  speeches  for  Buncombe,'  may  not  be 
aware  that  the  phrase  originated  as  follows:- A  member  of  Congress  from  the  county 
Of  Buncombe,  North  Carolina,  while  pronouncing  a  magniloquent  set  speech,  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  remark  from  the  chair,  that '  the  seats  were  quite  vacant"  '  Never  mind,  never 
mind,'  replied  the  orator, '  I'm  talking  for  Buncombe  1 ' 


NOTE  5.   Page  28. 

• Till  rising  high  in  rancorous  debate, 
And  higher  still  in  fierce,  envenomed  hate,' 
Etc. 

— — — —  Sed  jurgia  prima  sonare 
Incipinnt  animis  ardentibus;  haec  tuba  rizae; 
Dein  clamore  pan  concnrritur,  et  vice  teli 
Bavit  nuda  man  us.— Jov.  SAT.  xv. 


NOTES.   Page 30. 
« Jfo  t  uninvited  to  Tier  task  she  came.' 

This  Poem  wa»  written  at  the  instance  of  the  Associated  Alumni  of  Middlebury  College, 
tad  spoken  before  that  Society,  July  22, 1846. 


NOTB7.   Page  30. 

•  No  singers'  trick,  —  conveniently  to  bring 
A  Hidden  cough  when  importuned  to  sing.' 

The  capriciousnen  of  musical  folk,  here  alluded  to,  is  by  no  means  peculiar  to  our  times. 
A  little  before  the  Christian  era,  Horace  had  occasion  to  scold  the  Roman  singers  for  the 
same  fault:  — 

•  Omnibus  hoc  vitium  est  cantoribus,  inter  amicos, 
Ut  nunqnam  inducant  animum  cantare  rogati; 
Injussi  nunquam  desistant.'  —  SAT.  in. 


THE  PKOUD  MISS  MAC  BRIDE. 


(33) 


THE   PROUD  MISS  MAC    BRIDE. 

A   LEGEND    OF   GOTHAM. 
I. 

0,  TERRIBLY  proud  was  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
The  very  personification  of  Pride, 
As  she  minced  along  in  Fashion's  tide, 
Adown  Broadway,  —  on  the  proper  side,  — 

When  the  golden  sun  was  setting ; 
There  was  pride  in  the  head  she  carried  so  high, 
Pride  in  her  lip,  and  pride  in  her  eye, 
And  a  world  of  pride  in  the  very  sigh 

That  her  stately  bosom  was  fretting  ; 

ii. 

A  sigh  that  a  pair  of  elegant  feet, 
Sandaled  in  satin,  should  kiss  the  street,  — 
The  very  same  that  the  vulgar  greet 
In  common  leather  not  over  '  neat,'  — 
For  such  is  the  common  booting ; 

(37) 


38  THE   PROUD    MISS   MAC    BRIDE. 

(And  Christian  tears  may  well  be  shed, 
That  even  among  our  gentlemen  bred, 
The  glorious  day  of  Morocco  is  dead, 
And  Day  and  Martin  are  raining  instead, 
On  a  much  inferior  footing  ! ) 


O,  terribly  proud  was  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
Proud  of  her  beauty,  and  proud  of  her  pride, 
And  proud  of  fifty  matters  beside 

That  wouldn't  have  borne  dissection  ; 
Proud  of  her  wit,  and  proud  of  her  walk, 
Proud  of  her  teeth,  and  proud  of  her  talk, 
Proud  of  *  knowing  cheese  from  chalk,' 

On  a  very  slight  inspection  ! 

IV. 

Proud  abroad,  and  proud  at  home, 

Proud  wherever  she  chanced  to  come, 

When  she  was  glad,  and  when  she  was  glum  ; 

Proud  as  the  head  of  a  Saracen 
Over  the  door  of  a  tippling  shop !  — 
Proud  as  a  duchess,  proud  as  a  fop, 
'  Proud  as  a  boy  with  a  bran-new  top,' 

Proud  beyond  comparison ! 


THE   PROUD    MISS   MAC    BRIDE.  8rJ 

V. 

It  seems  a  singular  thing  to  say, 
But  her  very  senses  led  her  astray 

Respecting  all  humility  ; 
In  sooth,  her  dull  auricular  drum 
Could  find  in  Humble  only  a  '  hum,' 
And  heard  no  sound  of  '  gentle '  come, 

In  talking  about  gentility. 

VI. 

What  Lowly  meant  she  didn't  know, 

For  she  always  avoided  '  every  thing  low,' 

With  care  the  most  punctilious, 
And  queerer  still,  the  audible  sound 
Of  '  super-silly '  she  never  had  found 

In  the  adjective  supercilious  ! 

VII. 

The  meaning  of  Meek  she  never  knew, 
But  imagined  the  phrase  had  something  to  do 
With  '  Moses,'  —  a  peddling  German  Jew, 
Who,  like  all  hawkers  the  country  through, 

Was  a  person  of  no  position  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  her  exceedingly  plain, 
If  the  word  was  really  known  to  pertain 
To  a  vulgar  German,  it  wasn't  germane 

To  a  lady  of  high  condition  ! 


40  THE    PROUD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE. 

VIII. 

Even  her  graces,  —  not  her  grace, 
For  that  was  in  the  '  vocative  case,'  — 
Chilled  with  the  touch  of  her  icy  face, 

Sat  very  stiffly  upon  her ; 
She  never  confessed  a  favor  aloud, 
Like  one  of  the  simple,  common  crowd, 
But  coldly  smiled,  and  faintly  bowed, 
As  who  should  say  :  '  You  do  me  proud, 

And  do  yourself  an  honor  ! ' 

IX. 

And  yet  the  pride  of  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
Although  it  had  fifty  hobbies  to  ride, 

Had  really  no  foundation  ; 
But  like  the  fabrics  that  gossips  devise,  — 
Those  single  stories  that  often  arise 
And  grow  till  they  reach  a  four-story  size, 

Was  merely  a  fancy  creation  ! 

x. 

*Tis  a  curious  fact  as  ever  was  known 
In  human  nature,  but  often  shown 

Alike  in  castle  and  cottage, 
That  pride,  like  pigs  of  a  certain  breed, 
Will  manage  to  live  and  thrive  on  '  feed ' 

As  poor  as  a  pauper's  pottage  ! 


THE   PROUD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE.  41 

XI. 

That  her  wit  should  never  have  made  her  vain, 
Was,  like  her  face,  sufficiently  plain  ; 

And  as  to  her  musical  powers, 
Although  she  sang  until  she  was  hoarse, 
And  issued  notes  with  a  Banker's  force, 
They  were  just  such  notes  as  we  never  indorse 

For  any  acquaintance  of  ours  ! 

XII. 

Her  birth,  indeed,  was  uncommonly  high, 
For  Miss  Mac  Bride  first  opened  her  eye 
Through  a  sky-light  dim,  on  the  light  of  the  sky; 

But  pride  is  a  curious  passion, 
And  in  talking  about  her  wealth  and  worth, 
She  always  forgot  to  mention  her  birth, 

To  people  of  rank  and  fashion  ! 

XIII. 

Of  all  the  notable  things  on  earth, 
The  queerest  one  is  pride  of  birth, 

Among  our  '  fierce  Democracie  ! ' 
A  bridge  across  a  hundred  years, 
Without  a  prop  to  save  it  from  sneers,  — 
Not  even  a  couple  of  rotten  Peers,  — 
A  thing  for  laughter,  fleers  and  jeers, 

Is  American  aristocracy ! 
4 


42  THE   PROUD   MISS    MAC    BRIDE. 

XIV. 

English  and  Irish,  French  and  Spanish, 
German,  Italian,  Dutch  and  Danish, 
Crossing  their  veins  until  they  vanish 

In  one  conglomeration ! 
So  subtle  a  tangle  of  Blood,  indeed, 
No  heraldry-Harvey  will  ever  succeed 

In  finding  the  circulation  ! 

xv. 

Depend  upon  it,  my  snobbish  friend, 
Your  family  thread  you  can't  ascend, 
Without  good  reason  to  apprehend 
You  may  find  it  waxed  at  the  farther  end 

By  some  plebeian  vocation  ! 
Or,  worse  than  that,  your  boasted  Line 
May  end  in  a  loop  of  stronger  twine, 

That  plagued  some  worthy  relation  ! 

XVI. 

But  Miss  Mac  Bride  hath  something  beside 
Her  loTty  birth  to  nourish  her  pride,  — 
For  rich  was  the  old  paternal  Mac  Bride, 

According  to  public  rumor  ; 
And  he  lived  '  Up  Town,'  in  a  splendid  Square, 
And  kept  his  daughter  on  dainty  fare, 


THE   PKOTJD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE.  43 

And  gave  her  gems  that  were  rich  and  rare, 
And  the  finest  rings  and  things  to  wear, 
And  feathers  enough  to  plume  her ! 

XVII. 

An  honest  mechanic  was  John  Mac  Bride, 
As  ever  an  honest  calling  plied, 

Or  graced  an  honest  ditty  ; 
For  John  had  worked  in  his  early  day, 
In  *  Pots  and  Pearls,'  the  legends  say, 
And  kept  a  shop  with  a  rich  array 
Of  things  in  the  soap  and  candle  way, 

In  the  lower  part  of  the  city. 

XVIII. 

No  rara  avis  was  honest  John, 
(That's  the  Latin  for  '  sable  swan,') 

Though  in  one  of  his  fancy  flashes, 
A  wicked  wag,  who  meant  to  deride, 
Called  honest  John  '  Old  Phoenix  Mac  Bride,' 

'  Because  he  rose  from  his  ashes  ! ' 

XIX. 

Little  by  little  he  grew  to  be  rich, 
By  saving  of  candle-ends  and  '  sich,' 
Till  he  reached,  at  last,  an  opulent  niche, — 
No  very  uncommon  affair ; 


44  THE   PEOUD    MISS   MAC    BRIDE. 

For  history  quite  confirms  the  law 
Expressed  in  the  ancient  Scottish  saw, 
A  MICKLE  may  come  to  be  May'r  ! 1 

xx. 

Alack  !  for  many  ambitious  beaux  ! 
She  hung  their  hopes  upon  her  nose,  — 

(The  figure  is  quite  Horatian  !  )  2 
Until  from  habit  the  member  grew 
As  queer  a  thing  as  ever  you  knew 

Turn  up  to  observation ! 

XXI. 

A  thriving  tailor  begged  her  hand, 

But  she  gave  '  the  fellow '  to  understand, 

By  a  violent  manual  action, 
She  perfectly  scorned  the  best  of  his  clan, 
And  reckoned  the  ninth  of  any  man 

An  exceedingly  Vulgar  Fraction  ! 

XXII. 

Another,  whose  sign  was  a  golden  boot, 
Was  mortified  with  a  bootless  suit, 

In  a  way  that  was  quite  appalling  ; 

1  Mickle,  wi'  thrift  may  chance  to  be  mair.  —  Scotch  Proverb.    An- 
drew Mickle,  former  Mayor  of  New  York. 

2  "  Omnia  suspendens  naso." 


THE   PROUD    MISS   MAC   BRIDE.  45 

For  though  a  regular  sutor  by  trade, 
He  wasn't  a  suitor  to  suit  the  maid, 
Who  cut  him  off  with  a  saw,  —  and  bade 
*  The  cobbler  keep  to  his  calling.' 

XXIII. 

(The  Muse  must  let  a  secret  out, — 
There  isn't  the  faintest  shadow  of  doubt, 
That  folks  who  oftenest  sneer  and  flout 

At  '  the  dirty,  low  mechanicals,' 
Are  they  whose  sires,  by  pounding  their  knees, 
Or  coiling  their  legs,  or  trades  like  these, 
Contrived  to  win  their  children  ease 

From  poverty's  galling  manacles.) 

XXIV. 

A  rich  tobacconist  comes  and  sues, 
And,  thinking  the  lady  would  scarce  refuse 
A  man  of  his  wealth  and  liberal  views, 
Began,  at  once,  with  '  If  you  choose,  — 

And  could  you  really  love  him  — ' 
But  the  lady  spoiled  his  speech  in  a  huff, 
With  an  answer  rough  and  ready  enough, 
To  let  him  know  she  was  up  to  snuff, 

And  altogether  above  him  ! 


46  THE   PROUD    MISS    MAC   BRIDE. 

XXV. 

A  young  attorney  of  winning  grace, 
Was  scarce  allowed  to  '  open  his  face,' 
Ere  Miss  Mac  Bride  had  closed  his  case 

With  true  judicial  celerity ; 
For  the  lawyer  was  poor,  and  '  seedy '  to  boot, 
And  to  say  the  lady  discarded  his  suit, 

Is  merely  a  double  verity. 

XXVI. 

The  last  of  those  who  came  to  court 
Was  a  lively  beau  of  the  dapper  sort, 
'  Without  any  visible  means  of  support,' 

A  crime  by  no  means  flagrant 
In  one  who  wears  an  elegant  coat, 
But  the  very  point  on  which  they  vote 

A  ragged  fellow  '  a  vagrant.' 

xxvn. 

A  courtly  fellow  was  Dapper  Jim, 
Sleek  and  supple,  and  tall  and  trim, 
And  smooth  of  tongue  as  neat  of  limb ; 

And  maugre  his  meagre  pocket, 
You'd  say,  from  the  glittering  tales  he  told, 
That  Jim  had  slept  in  a  cradle  of  gold, 

With  Fortunatus  to  rock  it ! 


THE  PROUD    MISS   MAC   BEIDE.  47 

XXVIII. 

Now  Dapper  Jim  his  courtship  plied, 

(I  wish  the  fact  could  be  denied,) 

With  an  eye  to  the  purse  of  the  old  Mac  Bride, 

And  really  '  nothing  shorter ! ' 
For  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  greedy  lust, 
'  Whenever  he  dies,  —  as  die  he  must,  — 
And  yields  to  Heaven  his  vital  trust, 
He's  very  sure  to  "  come  down  with  his  dust," 

In  behalf  of  his  only  daughter.' 

XXIX. 

And  the  very  magnificent  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
Half  in  love  and  half  in  pride, 

Quite  graciously  relented ; 
And  tossing  her  head,  and  turning  her  back, 
No  token  of  proper  pride  to  lack,  — 
To  be  a  Bride  without  the  *  Mac,' 

With  much  disdain,  consented ! 

xxx. 

Alas  !  that  people  who've  got  their  box 
Of  cash  beneath  the  best  of  locks, 
Secure  from  all  financial  shocks, 
Should  stock  their  fancy  with  fancy  stocks, 
And  madly  rush  upon  Wall-street  rocks, 
Without  the  least  apology  ! 


48  THE   PROUD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE. 

Alas !  that  people  whose  money  affairs 
Are  sound  beyond  all  need  of  repairs, 
Should  ever  tempt  the  bulls  and  bears 
Of  Mammon's  fierce  Zoology ! 

XXXI. 

Old  John  Mac  Bride,  one  fatal  day, 
Became  the  unresisting  prey 

Of  Fortune's  undertakers  ; 
And  staking  his  all  on  a  single  die, 
His  foundered  bark  went  high  and  dry 

Among  the  brokers  and  breakers  ! 

xxxn. 

At  his  trade  again  in  the  very  shop 
Where,  years  before,  he  let  it  drop, 

He  follows  his  ancient  calling, — 
Cheerily,  too,  in  poverty's  spite, 
And  sleeping  quite  as  sound  at  night, 
As  when  at  Fortune's  giddy  height, 
He  used  to  wake  with  a  dizzy  fright 

From  a  dismal  dream  of  falling. 

XXXIII. 

But  alas !  for  the  haughty  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
'Twas  such  a  shock  to  her  precious  pride  ! 
She  couldn't  recover,  although  she  tried 
Her  jaded  spirits  to  rally  ; 


THE    PROUD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE.  49 

'Twas  a  dreadful  change  in  human  affairs, 
From  a  Place  '  Up  Town,'  to  a  nook  '  Up  Stairs,' 
From  an  Avenue  down  to  an  Alley  ! 

xxxiv. 

'Twas  little  condolence  she  had,  God  wot, 
From  her  '  troops  of  friends,'  who  hadn't  forgot 

The  airs  she  used  to  borrow ; 
They  had  civil  phrases  enough,  but  yet 
'Twas  plain  to  see  that  their  '  deepest  regret ' 

Was  a  different  thing  from  Sorrow  ! 

xxxv. 

They  owned  it  couldn't  have  well  been  worse, 
To  go  from  a  full  to  an  empty  purse, 
To  expect  a  reversion  and  get  a  '  reverse,' 

Was  truly  a  dismal  feature  ; 

But  it  wasn't  strange,  —  they  whispered, —  at  all ; 
That  the  Summer  of  pride  should  have  its  Fall, 

Was  quite  according  to  Nature  ! 

xxxvi. 

And  one  of  those  chaps  who  make  a  pun, 
As  if  it  were  quite  legitimate  fun 
To  be  blazing  away  at  every  one, 
With  a  regular  double-loaded  gun,  — 

Remarked  that  moral  transgression 
4 


50  THE   PROUD    MISS    MAC   BRIDE. 

Always  brings  retributive  stings 
To  candle-makers,  as  well  as  kings : 
And  making  light  of  cerepus  things, 
Was  a  veiy  wick-ed  profession ! 

XXXVII. 

And  vulgar  people,  the  saucy  churls, 
Inquired  about '  the  price  of  Pearls,' 

And  mocked  at  her  situation  ; 
'  She  wasn't  ruined,  —  they  ventured  to  hope, 
Because  she  was  poor,  she  needn't  mope,  — 
Few  people  were  better  off  for  soap, 

And  that  was  a  consolation  ! ' 

XXXVIII. 

And  to  make  her  cup  of  woe  run  over, 
Her  elegant,  ardent,  plighted  lover, 

Was  the  very  first  to  forsake  her ; 
*  He  quite  regretted  the  step,  'twas  true,  — 
The  lady  had  pride  enough  "  for  two," 
But  that  alone  would  never  do 

To  quiet  the  butcher  and  baker  ! ' 


And  now  the  unhappy  Miss  Mac  Bride, 
The  merest  ghost  of  her  early  pride, 
Bewails  her  lonely  position  ; 


THE    PROUD    MISS    MAC    BRIDE.  51 

Cramped  in  the  very  narrowest  niche, 
Above  the  poor,  and  below  the  rich, 
"Was  ever  a  worse  condition  ? 

MORAL. 

Because  you  flourish  in  worldly  affairs, 
Don't  be  haughty,  and  put  on  airs, 

With  insolent  pride  of  station  ! 
Don't  be  proud,  and  turn  up  your  nose 
At  poorer  people  in  plainer  clo'es, 
But  learn,  for  the  sake  of  your  soul's  repose, 
That  wealth's  a  bubble,  that  comes  —  and  goes  ! 
And  that  all  Proud  Flesh,  wherever  it  grows, 

Is  subject  to  irritation ! 


THE  BRIEFLESS  BARRISTER. 

A  BALLAD. 

AN  Attorney  was  taking  a  turn, 
In  shabby  habiliments  drest ; 

His  coat  it  was  shockingly  worn, 
And  the  rust  had  invested  his  vest. 

His  breeches  had  suffered  a  breach, 
His  linen  and  worsted  were  worse  ; 

He  had  scarce  a  whole  crown  in  his  hat, 
And  not  half-a-crown  in  his  purse. 

And  thus  as  he  wandered  along, 
A  cheerless  and  comfortless  elf, 

He  sought  for  relief  in  a  song, 

Or  complainingly  talked  to  himself: 

(52) 


THE   BRIEFLESS   BARRISTER.  53 

'  Unfortunate  man  that  I  am  ! 

I've  never  a  client  but  grief; 
The  case  is,  I've  no  case  at  all, 

And  in  brief,  I've  ne'er  had  a  brief ! 

'  I've  waited  and  waited  in  vain, 
Expecting  an  "  opening  "  to  find, 

Where  an  honest  young  lawyer  might  gain 
Some  reward  for  the  toil  of  his  mind. 

*  'Tis  not  that  I'm  wanting  in  law, 

Or  lack  an  intelligent  face, 
That  others  have  cases  to  plead, 
While  I  have  to  plead  for  a  case. 

*  O,  how  can  a  modest  young  man 

E'er  hope  for  the  smallest  progression,  — 
The  profession's  already  so  full 
Of  lawyers  so  full  of  profession ! ' 

While  thus  he  was  strolling  around, 

His  eye  accidentally  fell 
On  a  very  deep  hole  in  the  ground, 

And  he  sighed  to  himself, '  It  is  well ! ' 


54  THE   BRIEFLESS    BARRISTER. 

To  curb  his  emotions,  he  sat 

On  the  curb-stone  the  space  of  a  minute, 
Then  cried, '  Here's  an  opening  at  last ! ' 

And  in  less  than  a  jiffy  was  in  it ! 

Next  morning  twelve  citizens  came, 
('Twas  the  coroner  bade  them  attend,) 

To  the  end  that  it  might  be  determined 
How  the  man  had  determined  his  end  ! 

*  The  man  was  a  lawyer,  I  hear,' 

Quoth  the  foreman  who  sat  on  the  corse  ; 

*  A  lawyer  ?     Alas  ! '  said  another, 

*  Undoubtedly  died  of  remorse  ! ' 

A  third  said,  '  He  knew  the  deceased, 
An  attorney  well  versed  in  the  laws, 

And  as  to  the  cause  of  his  death, 

'Twas  no  doubt  from  the  want  of  a  cause.' 

The  jury  decided  at  length, 

After  solemnly  weighing  the  matter, 

1  That  the  lawyer  was  drownded,  because 
He  could  not  keep  his  head  above  water ! ' 


RHYME  OF  THE   RAIL. 

SINGING  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges, 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  over  bridges, 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale,  — 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  Rail ! 

Men  of  different '  stations ' 

In  the  eye  of  Fame, 
Here  are  very  quickly 

Coming  to  the  same. 
High  and  lowly  people, 

Birds  of  every  feather, 
On  a  common  level 

Travelling  together! 

(55) 


56  RHYME    OF   THE   RAIL. 

Gentleman  in  shorts, 

Looming  very  tall ; 
Gentleman  at  large, 

Talking  very  small ; 
Gentleman  in  tights, 

With  a  loose-ish  mien  ; 
Gentleman  in  gray, 

Looking  rather  green. 

Gentleman  quite  old, 

Asking  for  the  news ; 
Gentleman  in  black, 

In  a  fit  of  blues  ; 
Gentleman  in  claret, 

Sober  as  a  vicar ; 
Gentleman  in  Tweed, 

Dreadfully  in  liquor ! 

Stranger  on  the  right, 
Looking  very  sunny, 

Obviously  reading 

Something  rather  funny. 

Now  the  smiles  are  thicker, 
Wonder  what  they  mean  ? 

Faith,  he 's  got  the  KNICKER- 
BOCKER Magazine! 


RHYME    OF   THE   KAIL.  57 

Stranger  on  the  left, 

Closing  up  his  peepers, 
Now  he  snores  amain, 

Like  the  Seven  Sleepers ; 
At  his  feet  a  volume 

Gives  the  explanation, 
How  the  man  grew  stupid 

From  '  Association  ! ' 

Ancient  maiden  lady 

Anxiously  remarks, 
That  there  must  be  peril 

'Mong  so  many  sparks  ; 
Roguish  looking  fellow, 

Turning  to  the  stranger, 
Says  it's  his  opinion 

She  is  out  of  danger ! 

Woman  with  her  baby, 

Sitting  vis-a-vis ; 
Baby  keeps  a  squalling, 

Woman  looks  at  me ; 
Asks  about  the  distance, 

Says  it's  tiresome  talking, 
Noises  of  the  cars 

Are  so  very  shocking ! 
5 


58  RHYME    OP  THE    KAIL. 

Market  woman  careful 

Of  the  precious  casket, 
Knowing  eggs  are  eggs, 

Tightly  holds  her  basket ; 
Feeling  that  a  smash, 

If  it'came,  would  surely 
Sends  her  eggs  to  pot 

Rather  prematurely ! 

Singing  through  the  forests, 

Rattling  over  ridges, 
Shooting  under  arches, 

Rumbling  over  bridges., 
Whizzing  through  the  mountains, 

Buzzing  o'er  the  vale ; 
Bless  me  !  this  is  pleasant, 

Riding  on  the  Rail ! 


THE   EAPE   OF  THE   LOCK. 


(59) 


THE  EAPE  OF  THE  LOCK; 

OB, 

CAPTAIN  JONES'S  MISADVENTURE. 
I. 

To  follow  the  line  of  Captain  JONES 
Back  to  the  old  ancestral  bones, 

Were  surely  an  idle  endeavor  • 
For  all  that  is  known  of  the  family  feats, 
Is  that  his  sire,  as  a  paver  of  streets, 
Had  paved  his  way  in  a  manner  that  meets 

The  appellation  of  clever. 

II. 

Twere  pleasant  enough  more  fully  to  trace 
The  various  steps  in  the  Captain's  race, 

If  the  records  of  heraldy  had  'em  ; 
But  History  leaps  at  a  single  span 
From  the  primitive  pair  to  the  pavior-man, 

From  ADAM  down  to  MAC  ADAM. 

(61) 


RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 


'Twas  rumored  indeed,  but  nobody  knows 
What  credit  to  give  to  such  rumors  as  those, 

His  grand-papa  was  a  cooper  ; 
But  getting  fatigued  with  this  round-about  mode 
Of  staving  through  life,  he  took  to  the  Road, 

As  a  kind  of  irregular  trooper. 

IV. 

But  soon,  although  a  fellow  of  pluck, 
By  a  singular  turn  in  the  wheel  of  luck, 

He  met  with  a  mortal  miscarriage, 
By  means  of  a  cord  that  was  dangling  loose, 
And  fell  over  his  head  in  a  dangerous  noose, 

That  wasn't  at  all  like  Marriage. 

v. 

A  tale  invented  by  foes,  no  doubt, 
Which  idle  people  had  helped  about, 
Till  it  went  alone,  it  got  so  stout ; 

For  as  to  the  truth  of  the  story, 
I  scarcely  ought  to  have  named  it  here, 
It  seems  to  me  so  exceedingly  clear, 

The  fable  is  Newgate-ory. 


RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK.  63 

VI. 

And  that's  the  pith  of  the  pedigree 
Of  Captain  JONES,  whose  family  tree 
Was  a  little  shrub,  'tis  plain  to  see  ; 

But  what  the  topers  mention 
Respecting  wine,  is  true  of  blood  : 
It '  needs  no  bush  if  it's  only  good,' 
Much  less  a  tree  of  the  oldest  wood, 

To  warrant  the  world's  attention. 

VII. 

Now  Captain  JONES  was  a  five-feet  ten, 
(The  height  of  CHESTERFIELD'S  gentlemen,) 

With  a  manly  breadth  of  shoulder  ; 
And  Captain  JONES  was  straight  and  trim, 
With  nothing  about  him  anywise  slim, 
And  had  for  a  leg  as  perfect  a  limb 

As  ever  astonished  beholder ! 


With  a  calf  of  such  a  notable  size, 
'Twould  surely  have  taken  the  highest  prize 

At  any  fair  Fair  in  creation  ; 
'Twas  just  the  leg  for  a  prince  to  sport 
Who  wished  to  stand  at  a  Royal  Court, 

At  the  head  of  Foreign  Leg-ation ! 


64  KAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

IX. 

And  Captain  JONES  had  an  elegant  foot, 
Twas  just  the  thing  for  his  patent  boot, 

And  could  so  prettily  shove  it, 
Twas  a  genuine  pleasure  to  see  it  repeat 
In  the  public  walks  the  Milonian  feat 

Of  bearing  the  calf  above  it ! 

x. 

But  the  Captain's  prominent  personal  charm 
Was  neither  his  foot,  nor  leg,  nor  arm, 

Nor  his  very  distingue  air  ; 
Nor  was  it,  although  you're  thinking  upon't, 
The  front  of  his  head,  but  his  head  and  front 

Of  beautiful  coal-black  hair ! 

XI. 

So  very  bright  was  the  gloss  they  had, 
Twould  have  made  a  rival  raving  mad 

To  look  at  his  raven  curls ; 
Wherever  he  went,  the  Captain's  hair 
Was  certain  to  f?x  the  public  stare, 
And  the  constant  cry  was,  '  I  declare  ! ' 
And  *  Did  you  ever  ! '  and  '  Just  look  there ! ' 

Among  the  dazzled  girls. 


RAPE    OF    THE   LOCK.  65 

XII. 

Now  Captain  JONES  was  a  master  bold 
Of  a  merchant  ship  some  dozen  years  old, 
And  every  name  could  have  easily  told, 
(And  never  confound  the  '  hull '  and  the  '  hold,') 

Throughout  her  inventory ; 
And  he  had  travelled  in  foreign  parts, 
And  learned  a  number  of  foreign  arts, 
And  played  the  deuse  with  foreign  hearts, 

As  the  Captain  told  the  story. 

xni. 

He  had  learned  to  chatter  the  French  and  Spanish, 
To  splutter  the  Dutch,  and  mutter  the  Danish, 

•     In  a  way  that  sounded  oracular  ; 
Had  gabbled  among  the  Portuguese, 
And  caught  the  Tartar,  or  rather  a  piece 
Of  '  broken  China,'  it  wasn't  Chinese, 
Any  more  than  his  own  vernacular ! 

XIV. 

How  Captain  JONES  was  wont  to  shine 
In  the  line  of  ships  !  (not  Ships  of  the  Line,) 
How  he'd  brag  of  the  water  over  his  wine, 
And  of  women  over  the  water  ! 
5 


66  RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

And  then,  if  you  credit  the  Captain's  phrase, 
He  was  more  expert  in  such  queer  ways 
As  '  doubling  capes  '  and  '  putting  in  stays,' 
Than  any  milliner's  daughter  ! 


xv. 

Now  the  Captain  kept  in  constant  pay 
A  single  Mate,  as  a  Captain  may, 
(In  a  nautical,  not  in  a  naughty  way, 

As  '  mates'  are  sometimes  carried  ;) 
But  to  hear  him  prose  of  the  squalls  that  arose 
In  the  dead  of  the  night  to  break  his  repose  ; 
Of  white-caps  and  cradles,  and  such  things  as  those 
And  of  breezes  that  ended  in  regular  blows,, 

You'd  have  sworn  the  Captain  was  married  ! 


XVI. 

The  Captain's  morals  were  fair  enough, 
Though  a  sailor's  life  is  rather  rough, 

By  dint  of  the  ocean's  force ; 
And  that  one  who  makes  so  many,  in  ships, 
Should  make,  upon  shore,  occasional '  trips,* 

Seems  quite  a  matter  of  course. 


RAPE    OF    THE   LOCK.  67 

XVII. 

v 

And  Captain  JONES  was  stiff  as  a  post 
To  the  vulgar  fry,  but  among  the  most 
Genteel  and  polished,  ruled  the  roast, 
As  no  professional  cook  could  boast 

That  ever  you  set  your  eye  on  ; 
Indeed,  'twas  enough  to  make  him  vain, 
For  the  pretty  and  proud  confessed  his  reign, . 
And  Captain  JONES,  in  manners  and  mane, 

Was  deemed  a  genuine  lion. 

XVIII. 

And  the  Captain  revelled  early  and  late, 
At  the  balls  and  routs  of  the  rich  and  great, 
And  seemed  the  veriest  child  of  fetes, 

Though  merely  a  minion  of  pleasure  ; 
And  he  laughed  with  the  girls  in  merry  sport, 
And  paid  the  mammas  the  civilest  court, 
And  drank  their  wine,  whatever  the  sort, 
By  the  nautical  rule  of  '  Any  port ' 

You  may  add  the  rest  at  leisure. 

XIX. 

Miss  SUSAN  BROWN  was  a  dashing  girl 

As  ever  revolved  in  the  waltz's  whirl, 

Or  twinkled  a  foot  in  the  polka's  twirl, 

By  the  glare  of  spermaceti ; 


RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

And  STJSAN'S  form  was  trim  and  slight, 
And  her  beautiful  skin,  as  if  in  spite 
Of  her  dingy  name,  was  exceedingly  white, 
And  her  azure  eyes  were  '  sparkling  and  bright,' 
And  so  was  her  favorite  ditty. 


xx. 

And  SITSAN  BROWN  had  a  score  of  names, 
Like  the  very  voluminous  Mr.  JAMES, 
(Who  got  at  the  Font  his  strongest  claims 

To  be  reckoned  a  Man  of  Letters  ;) 
But  thinking  the  task  will  hardly  please 
Scholars  who've  taken  the  higher  degrees, 
To  be  set  repeating  their  A,  B,  C's, 
I  choose  to  reject  such  fetters  as  these, 

Though  merely  Nominal  fetters. 


XXI. 

The  patronymical  name  of  the  maid 
Was  so  completely  overlaid 

With  a  long  pronominal  cover, 
That  if  each  additional  proper  noun 
Was  laid  with  additional  emphasis  down, 
Miss  SUSAN  was  done  uncommonly  BROWN, 

The  moment  her  christ'ning  was  over  ! 


RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 
XXII. 

And  STJSAN  was  versed  in  modern  romance, 
In  the  Modes  of  MURRAY  and  Modes  of  France, 
And  had  learned  to  sing  and  learned  to  dance, 

In  a  style  decidedly  pretty  ; 
And  SUSAN  was  versed  in  classical  lore, 
In  the  works  of  HORACE,  and  several  more 
Whose  opera  now  would  be  voted  a  bore 

By  the  lovers  of  DONIZETTI. 

XXIII. 

And  SUSAN  was  rich.     Her  provident  sire 
Had  piled  the  dollars  up  higher  and  higher, 

By  dint  of  his  personal  labors, 
Till  he  reckoned  at  last  a  sufficient  amount 
To  be  counted,  himself,  a  man  of  account 

Among  his  affluent  neighbors. 

XXIV. 

By  force  of  careful  culture  alone, 
Old  BROWN'S  estate  had  rapidly  grown 

A  plum  for  his  only  daughter; 
And  after  all  the  fanciful  dreams 
Of  golden  fountains  and  golden  streams, 
The  sweat  of  patient  labor  seems 

The  true  Pactolian  water. 


70  RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

XXV. 

And  while  your  theorist  worries  his  mind 
In  hopes  '  the  magical  stone  '  to  find, 

By  some  alchemical  gammon, 
Practical  people,  by  regular  knocks, 
Are  filling  their  '  pockets  full  of  rocks  ' 

From  the  golden  mountain  of  Mammon  ! 

XXVI. 

"With  charms  like  these,  you  may  well  suppose 
Miss  SUSAN  BROWN  had  plenty  of  beaux, 

Breathing  nothing  but  passion  ; 
And  twenty  sought  her  hand  to  gain, 
And  twenty  sought  her  hand  in  vain, 
Were  '  cut,'  and  didn't 4  come  again,' 

In  the  Ordinary  fashion. 

XXVII. 

Captain  JONES,  by  the  common  voice, 

At  length  was  voted  the  man  of  her  choice, 

And  she  his  favorite  fair; 
It  wasn't  the  Captain's  manly  face, 
His  native  sense,  nor  foreign  grace, 
That  took  her  heart  from  its  proper  place 
And  put  it  into  a  tenderer  case, 

But  his  beautiful  coal-black  hair  ! 


RAPE    OF  THE   LOCK.  71 

XXVIII. 

How  it  is,  why  it  is,  none  can  tell, 
But  all  philosophers  know  full  well, 

Though  puzzled  about  the  action, 
That  of  all  the  forces  under  the  sun 
You  can  hardly  find  a  stronger  one 

Than  capillary  attraction. 

XXIX. 

The  locks  of  canals  are  strong  as  rocks ; 

And  wedlock  is  strong  as  a  banker's  box ; 

And  there's  strength  in  the  locks  a  Cockney  cocks 

At  innocent  birds,  to  give  himself  knocks ; 

In  the  locks  of  safes,  and  those  safety-locks, 

They  call  the  Permutation  ; 
But  of  all  the  locks  that  ever  were  made 
In  Nature's  shops,  or  the  shops  of  trade, 

The  subtlest  combination 
Of  beauty  and  strength  is  found  in  those 
Which  grace  the  heads  of  belles  and  beaux 

In  every  civilized  nation ! 

xxx. 

The  gossips  whispered  it  through  the  town, 

That '  Captain  JONES  loved  SUSAN  BROWN  ; ' 

But,  speaking  with  due  precision, 


72  BAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

The  gossips'  tattle  was  out  of  joint, 
For  the  lady's  '  blunt '  was  the  only  point 
That  dazzled  the  lover's  vision  ! 

XXXI. 

And  the  Captain  begged,  in  his  smoothest  tones, 
Miss  SUSAN  BROWN  to  be  Mistress  JONES,  — 
Flesh  of  his  flesh  and  bone  of  his  bones, 

Till  death  the  union  should  sever ; 
For  these  are  the  words  employed,  of  course, 
Though  Death  is  cheated,  sometimes,  by  Divorce 
A  fact  which  gives  an  equivocal  force 

To  that  beautiful  phrase,  '  forever  ! ' 

XXXII. 

And  SUSAN  sighed  the  conventional  '  Nay ' 

In  such  a  bewitching,  affirmative  way, 

The  Captain  perceived  'twas  the  feminine  'Ay,' 

And  sealed  it  in  such  commotion, 
That  no  '  lip-service '  that  ever  was  paid 
To  the  ear  of  a  god,  or  the  cheek  of  a  maid, 

Looked  more  like  real  devotion  ! 

XXXIII. 

And  SUSAN'S  Mamma  made  an  elegant  fete, 
And  exhibited  all  the  family  plate 
In  honor  of  SUSAN'S  lover ; 


RAPE    OF    THE    LOCK.  73 

For  now  'twas  settled,  another  trip 
Over  the  sea  in  his  merchant  ship 

And  his  bachelor-ship  was  over. 

xxxiv. 

There  was  an  Alderman,  well-to-do, 
Who  was  fond  of  talking  about  vertu^ 
And  had,  besides,  the  genuine  gout, 

If  one  might  credit  his  telling  ; 
And  the  boast  was  true  beyond  a  doubt, 
If  he  had  only  pronounced  it '  gout,' 

According  to  English  spelling  ! 

xxxv. 

A  crockery-merchant  of  great  parade, 
Always  boasting  of  having  made 
His  large  estate  in  the  China  trade  ; 

Several  affluent  tanners  ; 
A  lawyer,  whose  most  important  '  case  ' 
Was  that  which  kept  his  books  in  place ; 
His  wife,  a  lady  of  matchless  grace, 
Who  bought  her  form,  and  made  her  face, 

Who  plainly  borrowed  her  manners ; 

xxxvi. 

A  druggist ;  an  undevout  divine  ; 
A  banker,  who'd  got  as  rich  as  a  mine 
'  In  the  cotton  trade  and  sugar  line,' 
6 


74  RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

Along  the  Atlantic  border ; 
A  doctor,  fumbling  his  golden  seals  ; 
And  an  undertaker  close  at  his  heels, 

Quite  in  the  natural  order !      • 

XXXVII. 

People  of  rank,  and  people  of  wealth, 
Plethoric  people  in  delicate  health, 
(Who  fast  in  public,  and  feast  by  stealth,) 

And  people  slender  and  hearty, 
Flocked  in  so  fast,  'twas  plain  to  the  eye 
Of  any  observer  standing  by, 
That  party-spirit  was  running  high, 

And  this  was  the  popular  party  ! 

xxxvin. 

To  tell  what  griefs  and  woes  betide 
The  hapless  world,  from  female  pride, 

Were  a  long  and  dismal  story  ; 
Alas  !  for  SUSAX  and  womankind  ! 
A  sudden  ambition  seized  her  mind, 

In  the  height  of  her  party-glory. 

xxxix. 

To  pique  a  group  of  laughing  girls 
Who  stood  admiring  the  Captain's  curls, 


RAPE    OF   THE    LOCK.  75 

She  formed  the  resolution 
To  get  a  lock  of  her  lover's  hair, 
In  the  gaze  of  the  guests  assembled  there, 
By  some  expedient,  foul  or  fair, 

Before  the  party's  conclusion. 

XL. 

*  Only  a  lock,  dear  Captain !  —  no  more, 
"  A  lock  for  memory,"  I  implore  ! ' 

But  JONES,  the  gayest  of  quizzers, 
Replied,  as  he  gave  his  eye  a  cock, 

*  'Tis  a  treacherous  memory  needs  a  lock,' 

And  dodged  the  envious  scissors. 

XLI. 

Alas !  that  SUSAN  couldn't  refrain, 
In  her  zeal  the  precious  lock  to  gain, 
From  laying  her  hand  on  the  lion's  mane  ! 

To  see  the  cruel  mocking, 
And  hear  the  short,  affected  cough, 
The  general  titter,  and  chuckle,  and  scoff, 
When  the  Captain's  Patent  Wig  came  off, 

Was  really  dreadfully  shocking ! 


76  RAPE    OF   THE   LOCK. 

XLII. 

Of  SUSAN'S  swoon,  the  tale  is  told 
That  long  before  her  earthly  mould 

Regained  its  ghostly  tenant, 
Her  luckless,  wigless,  loveless  lover, 
Was  on  the  sea,  and  '  half-seas-over,' 
Dreaming  that  some  piratical  rover 

Had  carried  away  his  Pennant ! 


A  RHYMED  EPISTLE 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  MAGAZINE. 

DEAR  KNICK  :  While  myself  and  my  spouse 

Sat  tea-ing  last  evening,  and  chatting, 
And,  mindful  of  conjugal  vows, 

Were  nicely  agreed  in  combating, 
It  chanced  that  myself  and  my  wife 

('Twas  Madam  occasioned  the  pother !) 
Falling  suddenly  into  a  strife, 

Came  near  falling  out  with  each  other ! 

In  a  brisk,  miscellaneous  chat, 

Quite  in  tune  with  the  chime  of  the  tea-things, 
We  were  talking  of  this  and  of  that, 

Just  as  each  of  us  happened  to  see  things, 
When  some  how  or  other  it  chanced 

(I  don't  quite  remember  the  cue,) 
That  as  talking  and  tea-ing  advanced, 

We  found  we  were  talking  of  you  ! 

(77) 


78  A   RHYMED    EPISTLE. 

I  think,  —  but  perhaps  I  am  wrong, 

Such  a  subtle  old  chap  is  Suggestion, 
As  he  forces  each  topic  along 

By  the  trick  of  the  '  previous  question,' 
Some  remarks  on  a  bacchanal  revel 

Suggested  that  horrible  elf 
With  the  hoof  and  the  horns,  —  and  the  Devil, 

Excuse  me,  suggested  yourself! 

*  Ah  !  Knick,  to  be  sure  ;  by  the  way,' 

Quoth  Madam, '  what  sort  of  a  man 
Do  you  take  him  to  be  !  —  nay,  but  stay, 

And  let  me  guess  him  out  if  I  can. 
He's  young,  and  quite  handsome,  no  doubt ; 

Rather  slender,  and  not  over-tall ; 
And  he  loves  a  snug  little  turn-out, 

And  turns  out  "  quite  a  love  "  at  a  ball ! ' 

And  then  she  went  on  to  portray 

Such  a  very  delightful  ideal, 
That  a  sensible  stranger  would  say 

It  really  couldn't  be  real. 
*  And  his  wife,  what  a  lady  must  she  be  ? 

(KNICK'S  married,  that  I  know,  and  you  know  ;) 
You'll  find  her  a  delicate  Hebe, 

And  not  your  magnificent  Juno  ! ' 


A   RHYMED    EPISTLE. 

Now  I  am  a  man,  you  must  learn, 

Less  famous  for  beauty  than  strength, 
And  for  aught  I  could  ever  discern, 

Of  rather  superfluous  length. 
In  truth,  'tis  but  seldom  one  meets 

Such  a  Titan  in  human  abodes, 
And  when  I  stalk  over  the  streets, 

I'm  a  perfect  Colossus  of  roads  ! 

So  I  frowned  like  a  Tragedy-Roman, 

For  in  painting  the  beautiful  elf 
As  the  form  of  your  lady,  the  woman 

Took  care  to  be  drawing  herself; 
While,  mark  you,  the  picture  she  drew 

So  deused  con  amore  and  free, 
That  fanciful  likeness  of  you, 

Was  by  no  means  a  portrait  of  me  ! 

'  How  lucky  for  ladies,'  I  hinted, 

'  That  in  our  republican  land 
They  may  prattle,  without  being  stinted, 

Of  matters  they  don't  understand  ; 
I'll  show  you,  dear  Madam,  that  "  KNICK  " 

Isn't  dapper  nor  daintily  slim, 
But  a  gentleman  decently  thick, 

With  a  manly  extension  of  limb.' 


80  A   RHYMED    EPISTLE. 

'  And  as  to  his  youth  —  talk  of  flowers 

Blooming  gayly  in  frosty  December  ! 
I'll  warrant,  his  juvenile  hours 

Are  things  he  can  scarcely  remember ! 
Here,  Madam,  quite  plain  to  be  seen, 

Is  the  chap  you  would  choose  for  a  lover ! ' 
And  producing  your  own  Magazine, 

I  pointed  elate  to  the  cover  ! 

*You  see,  ma'am,  'tis  just  as  I  said, 

His  locks  are  as  gray  as  a  rat ; 
Here,  look  at  the  crown  of  his  head, 

'Tis  bald  as  the  crown  of  my  hat ! ' 
*  Nay,  my  dear,'  interrupted  my  wife, 

Who  began  to  be  casting  about 
To  get  the  last  word  in  the  strife, 

''T  is  his  grandfather's  picture,  no  doubt ! ' 


THE  DOG  DAYS. 

•  Hot  I  -  hot  I — all  piping  hot  I "  —  City  Cries. 

HEAVEN  help  us  all  in  these  terrific  days ! 

The  burning  sun  upon  the  earth  is  pelting 
With  his  directest,  fiercest,  hottest  rays, 

And  every  thing  is  melting  ! 

Fat  men,  infatuate,  fan  the  stagnant  air, 
In  rash  essay  to  cool  their  inward  glowing, 

While  with  each  stroke,  in  dolorous  despair, 
They  feel  the  fever  growing  ! 

The  lean  and  lathy  find  a  fate  as  hard, 
For,  all  a-dry,  they  burn  like  any  tinder 

Beneath  the  solar  blaze,  till  withered,  charred 
And  crisped  away  to  cinder  ! 

(81) 

6 


82  THE   DOG   DATS. 

E'en  Stoics  now  are  in  the  melting  mood, 
And  vestal  cheeks  are  most  unseemly  florid ; 

The  very  zone  that  girts  the  frigid  prude, 
Is  now  intensely  torrid  ! 

The  dogs  lie  lolling  in  the  deepest  shade  ; 

The  pigs  are  all  a-wallow  in  the  gutters, 
And  not  a  household  creature  —  cat  or  maid, 

But  querulously  mutters ! 

'  'Tis  dreadful,  dreadful  hot ! '  exclaims  each  one 
Unto  his  sweating,  sweltering,  roasting  neighbor, 

Then  mops  his  brow,  and  sighs,  as  he  had  done 
A  quite  herculean  labor  ! 

And  friends  who  pass  each  other  in  the  town, 
Say  no  good  morrows  when  they  come  together, 

But  only  mutter,  with  a  dismal  frown, 
4  What  horrid,  horrid  weather  ! ' 

While  prudent  mortals  curb  with  strictest  care 
All  vagrant  curs,  it  seems  the  queerest  puzzle 

The  Dog-star  rages  rabid  through  the  air, 
Without  the  slightest  muzzle  ! 


A    CLASSIC   CONTROVERSY.  80 

But  Jove  is  wise  and  equal  in  his  sway, 

Howe'er  it  seems  to  clash  with  human  reason, 

His  fiery  dogs  will  soon  have  had  their  day, 
And  men  shall  have  a  season  ! 


ON  A  RECENT  CLASSIC  CONTROVERSY. 

AN  EPIGRAM. 

NAY,  marvel  not  to  see  these  scholars  fight, 
In  brave  disdain  of  certain  scath  and  scar  ; 

'Tis  but  the  genuine,  old,  Hellenic  spite,  — 

4  When  Greek  meets  Greek,  then  comes  the  tug  of 
war!' 


QUOTH  David  to  Daniel  — 4  Why  is  it  these  scholars 
Abuse  one  another  whenever  they  speak  ? ' 

Quoth  Daniel  to  David  — '  It  nat'rally  follers 
Folks  come  to  hard  words  if  they  meddle  with 
Greek!' 


THE   GHOST-PLATER. 


A   BALLAD. 

TOM  GOODWIN  was  an  actor-man, 
Old  Drury's  pride  and  boast 

In  all  the  light  and  sprite-ly  parts, 
Especially  the  Ghost. 

Now  Tom  was  very  fond  of  drink, 

Of  almost  every  sort, 
Comparative  and  positive, 

From  porter  up  to  port. 

But  grog,  like  grief,  is  fatal  stuff 

For  any  man  to  sup  ; 
For  when  it  fails  to  pull  him  down, 

It's  sure  to  blow  him  up. 

(84) 


THE   GHOST-PLATER.  85 

And  so  it  fared  with  ghostly  Tom, 

Who  day  by  day  was  seen 
A-swelling,  till  (as  lawyers  say) 

He  fairly  lost  his  lean. 

At  length  the  manager  observed 

He'd  better  leave  his  post, 
And  said,  he  played  the  very  deuse 

Whene'er  he  played  the  Ghost. 

'Twas  only  'tother  night  he  saw 

A  fellow  swing  his  hat, 
And  heard  him  cry,  '  By  all  the  gods  ! 

The  Ghost  is  getting  fat ! ' 

'Twould  never  do,  the  case  was  plain  ; 

His  eyes  he  couldn't  shut ; 
Ghosts  shouldn't  make  the  people  laugh, 

And  Tom  was  quite  a  butt. 

Tom's  actor  friends  said  ne'er  a  word 

To  cheer  his  drooping  heart ; 
Though  more  than  one  was  burning  up 

With  zeal  to  '  take  his  part.' 


86  THE    GHOST-PLATER. 

Tom  argued  very  plausibly  ; 

He  said  he  didn't  doubt 
That  Hamlet's  father  drank  and  grew, 

In  years,  a  little  stout. 

And  so,  'twas  natural,  he  said, 
And  quite  a  proper  plan, 

To  have  his  spirit  represent 
A  portly  sort  of  man. 

'Twas  all  in  vain  ;  the  manager 
Said  he  was  not  in  sport, 

And,  like  a  gen'ral,  bade  poor  Tom 
Surrender  up  his  forte. 

He'd  do  perhaps  in  heavy  parts ; 

Might  answer  for  a  monk, 
Or  porter  to  the  elephant, 

To  carry  round  his  trunk  ; 

But  in  the  Ghost  his  day  was  past  — 

He'd  never  do  for  that ; 
A  Ghost  might  just  as  well  be  dead 

As  plethoric  and  fat ! 


ON   AN   ILL-READ   LAWYER.  87 

Alas  !  next  day  poor  Tom  was  found 

As  stiff  as  any  post  — 
For  he  had  lost  his  character, 

And  given  up  the  Ghost ! 


ON  AN  ILL-READ  LAWYER. 
AN  EPIGRAM. 

AN  idle  attorney  besought  a  brother 

For  *  something  to  read  —  some  novel  or  other, 

That  was  really  fresh  and  new.' 
4  Take  Chitty  ! '  replied  his  legal  friend, 
'  There  isn't  a  book  that  I  could  lend 

Would  prove  more  "  novel "  to  you  ! ' 


A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR. 

•  Double !  double ! '  -  Shakspeare. 
I. 

DEAR  CHARLES,  be  persuaded  to  wed, 

For  a  sensible  fellow  like  you, 
It's  high  time  to  think  of  a  bed, 

And  muffins  and  coffee  for  two  ! 
So  have  done  with  your  doubt  and  delaying,  — 

With  a  soul  so  adapted  to  mingle, 
No  wonder  the  neighbors  are  saying 

'Tis  singular  you  should  be  single  ! 

2. 

Don't  say  that  you  have'nt  got  time,  — 
That  business  demands  your  attention, — 

There's  not  the  least  reason  nor  rhyme 
In  the  wisest  excuse  you  can  mention. 


A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR.        89 

Don't  tell  me  about '  other  fish,'  — 

Your  duty  is  done  when  you  buy  'em,  — 

And  you  never  will  relish  the  dish, 
Unless  you've  a  woman  to  fry  'em  ! 

3. 

Don't  listen  to  querulous  stories 

By  desperate  damsels  related, 
Who  sneer  at  connubial  glories, 

Because  they've  known  couples  mismated. 
Such  people,  if  they  had  their  pleasure, 

Because  silly  bargains  are  made, 
Would  deem  it  a  rational  measure 

To  lay  an  embargo  on  trade ! 

4. 

You  may  dream  of  poetical  fame, 

But  your  wishes  may  chance  to  miscarry,  — 
The  best  way  of  sending  one's  name 

To  posterity,  Charles,  is  to  marry ! 
And  here  I  am  willing  to  own, 

After  soberly  thinking  upon  it, 
I'd  very  much  rather  be  known 

For  a  beautiful  son,  than  a  sonnet  I 
7 


90         A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR. 

5. 

To  Procrastination  be  deaf,  — 

(A  homily  sent  from  above,) 
The  scoundrel's  not  only  '  the  thief 

Of  time,'  but  of  beauty  and  love  ! 
O  delay  not  one  moment  to  win 

A  prize  thai  is  truly  worth  winning,  — 
Celibacy,  Charles,  is  a  sin, 

And  sadly  prolific  of  sinning  ! 

6. 

'  Then  pray  bid  your  doubting  good  by, 

And  dismiss  all  fantastic  alarms,  — 
I'll  be  sworn  you've  a  girl  in  your  eye 

'Tis  your  duty  to  have  in  your  arms  ! 
Some  trim  little  maiden  of  twenty, 

A  beautiful,  azure-eyed  elf, 
With  virtues  and  graces  in  plenty, 

And  no  failing  but  loving  yourself! 

7. 
Don't  search  for  '  an  angel '  a  minute  ; 

For  granting  you  win  in  the  sequel, 
The  deuse,  after  all,  would  be  in  it, 

With  a  union  so  very  unequal ! 


A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR.         91 

The  angels,  it  must  be  confessed, 

In  this  world  are  rather  uncommon ; 
And  allow  me,  dear  Charles,  to  suggest 

You'll  be  better  content  with  a  woman  ! 

8. 
I  could  furnish  a  bushel  of  reasons 

For  choosing  a  conjugal  mate,  — 
It  agrees  with  all  climates  and  seasons, 

And  gives  you  a  '  double  estate  ! ' 
To  one's  parents  'tis  (gratefully)  due, — 

Just  think  what  a  terrible  thing 
'T would  have  been,  sir,  for  me  and  for  you, 

If  ours  had  forgotten  the  ring  ! 

9. 

Then  there's  the  economy  —  clear, 

By  poetical  algebra  shown,  — 
If  your  wife  has  a  grief  or  a  fear, 

One  half,  by  the  law,  is  your  own ! 
And  as  to  the  joys  —  by  division, 

They're  nearly  quadrupled,  'tis  said, 
(Though  I  never  could  see  the  addition 

Quite  plain  in  the  item  of  bread). 


92         A  BENEDICT'S  APPEAL  TO  A  BACHELOR. 

10. 

Remember,  I  do  not  pretend 

There's  any  thing  '  perfect '  about  it, 
But  this  I'll  aver  to  the  end, 

Life's  very  imperfect  without  it ! 
'Tis  not  that  there's  '  poetry  '  in  it,  — 

As,  doubtless,  there  may  be  to  those 
Endowed  with  a  genius  to  win  it,  — 

But  I'll  warrant  you  excellent  prose  ! 

11. 

Then,  Charles,  be  persuaded  to  wed, — 

For  a  sensible  fellow  like  you, 
It's  high  time  to  think  of  a  bed, 

And  muffins  and  coffee  for  two  ; 
So  have  done  with  your  doubt  and  delaying,  - 

With  a  soul  so  adapted  to  mingle, 
No  wonder  the  neighbors  are  saying 

'Tis.  singular  you  should  be  single  I 


BOYS. 

'  THE  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,'  — 
The  most  perplexing  one,  no  doubt,  is  woman ; 

The  subtlest  study  that  the  mind  can  scan, 
Of  all  deep  problems,  heavenly  or  human  ! 

But  of  all  studies  in  the  round  of  learning, 
From  nature's  marvels  down  to  human  toys, 

To  minds  well  fitted  for  acute  discerning, 
The  very  queerest  one  is  that  of  boys  1 

If  to  ask  questions  that  would  puzzle  Plato, 
And  all  the  schoolmen  of  the  middle  age,  — 

If  to  make  precepts  worthy  of  old  Cato, 

Be  deemed  philosophy,  —  your  boy's  a  sage  ! 

If  the  possession  of  a  teeming  fancy,  — 

(Although,  forsooth,  the  younker  doesn't  know  it,) 

Which  he  can  use  in  rarest  necromancy, 
Be  thought  poetical,  your  boy's  a  poet ! 

(93) 


94  WOMAN'S  WILL. 

If  a  strong  will  and  most  courageous  bearing, 
If  to  be  cruel  as  the  Roman  Nero  ; 

If  all  that's  chivalrous,  and  all  that's  daring, 
Can  make  a  hero,  then  the  boy's  a  hero  ! 

But  changing  soon  with  his  increasing  stature, 
The  boy  is  lost  in  manhood's  riper  age, 

And  with  him  goes  his  former  triple  nature,  — 
No  longer  Poet,  Hero,  now,  nor  Sage  ! 


WOMAN'S   WILL. 

AN  EPIQKAM. 

MEN  dying  make  their  wills,  —  but  wives 

Escape  a  work  so  sad  ; 
Why  should  they  make  what  all  their  lives 

The  gentle  dames  have  had  ? 


THE   COLD  WATER-MAX. 

A   BALLAD. 

l 

IT  was  an  honest  fisherman, 
I  knew  him  passing  well,  — 

And  he  lived  by  a  little  pond, 
Within  a  little  dell. 

A  grave  and  quiet  man  was  he, 
Who  loved  his  hook  and  rod,— 

So  even  ran  his  line  of  life, 
His  neighbors  thought  it  odd. 

For  science  and  for  books,  he  saW 
He  never  had  a  wish,  — 

No  school  to  him  was  worth  a  fig, 
Except  a  school  of  fish. 


(95) 


96  THE    COLD    WATER-MAN. 

He  ne'er  aspired  to  rank  or  wealth, 
Nor  cared  about  a  name,  — 

For  though  much  famed  for  fish  was  he, 
He  never  fished  for  fame  ! 

Let  others  bend  their  necks  at  sight 
Of  Fashion's  gilded  wheels, 

He  ne'er  had  learned  the  art  to  '  bob ' 
For  any  thing  but  eels  ! 

A  cunning  fisherman  was  he, 
His  angles  all  were  right ; 

The  smallest  nibble  at  his  bait 
Was  sure  to  prove  '  a  bite  ! ' 

All  day  this  fisherman  would  sit 

Upon  an  ancient  log, 
And  gaze  into  the  water,  like 

Some  sedentary  frog ; 

With  all  the  seeming  innocence, 
And  that  unconscious  look, 

That  other  people  often  wear 
When  they  intend  to  '  hook ! ' 


THE    COLD    WATER-MAN.  97 

To  charm  the  fish  he  never  spoke,  — 

Although  his  voice  was  fine, 
He  found  the  most  convenient  way 

Was  just  to  drop  a  line  ! 

And  many  a  gudgeon  of  the  pond, 

If  they  could  speak  to-day, 
Would  own,  with  grief,  this  angler  had 

A  mighty  taking  way  ! 

Alas  !  one  day  this  fisherman 

Had  taken  too  much  grog, 
And  being  but  a  landsman,  too, 

He  couldn't  keep  the  log  ! 

'Twas  all  in  vain  with  might  and  main 

He  strove  to  reach  the  shore  — 
Down  —  down  he  went,  to  feed  the  fish 

He'd  baited  oft  before  ! 

The  jury  gave  their  verdict  that 

'Twas  nothing  else  but  gin 
Had  caused  the  fisherman  to  be 

So  sadly  taken  in  ; 

7 


THE    DAGUERREOTYPE. 

Though  one  stood  out  upon  a  whim, 
And  said  the  angler's  slaughter, 

To  be  exact  about  the  fact, 
Was,  clearly,  gm-and-water  ! 

The  moral  of  this  mournful  tale, 
To  all  is  plain  and  clear,  — 

That  drinking  habits  bring  a  man 
Too  often  to  his  bier; 

And  he  who  scorns  to  '  take  the  pledge, 

And  keep  the  promise  fast, 
May  be,  in  spite  of  fate,  a  stiff 

Cold  water-man  at  last  ! 


ON  AN  UGLY  PERSON  SITTING  FOR  A  DAGUERREOTYPE. 
AN  EPIGRAM. 

HERE  Nature  in  her  glass, —  the  wanton  elf,  — 
Sits  gravely  making  faces  at  herself; 
And  while  she  scans  each  clumsy  feature  o'er, 
Repeats  the  blunders  that  she  made  before  ! 


A  COLLEGE  REMINISCENCE. 

(ADDRESSED  TO  THOMAS  B.  THOKPE,  ESQ.  OP  NEW  ORLEANS.)  . 

DEAR  TOM,  have  you  forgot  the  day 
When,  long  ago,  we  used  to  stray 

Among  the  '  Haddams  ?  ' 
Where,  in  the  mucky  road,  a  man 
(The  road  was  built  on  Adam's  plan, 

And  not  McAdam's !) 

Went  down  —  down  —  down,  one  stormy  night, 
And  disappeared  from  human  sight, 

All  save  his  hat,  — 
Which  raised  in  sober  minds  a  sense 
Of  some  mysterious  Providence 

In  sparing  that  ? 

(99) 


100  A    COLLEGE    REMINISCENCE. 

I  think  'twill  please  you,  Tom,  to  hear 
The  man  who  in  that  night  of  fear 

Went  down  terrestrial, 
Worked  out  a  passage  like  a  miner, 
And  pricking  through  somewhere  in  China, 

Came  up  Celestial ! 

Ah  !  those  were  memorable  times, 
And  worth  embalming  in  my  rhymes, 

When,  at  the  summons 
Of  chapel  bell,  we  left  our  sport 
For  lessons  most  uncommon  short, 

Or  shorter  commons ! 

I  mind  me,  Tom,  you  often  drew 
Nice  portraits,  and  exceeding  true, — 

To  your  intention ! 
The  most  impracticable  faces 
Discovered  unsuspected  graces, 

By  your  invention. 

On  brainless  heads  the  finest  bumps 
(Erected  by  your  pencil-thumps,) 

Were  plainly  seen  ; 
Your  Yankees  all  were  very  Greek, 
Unchosen  aunts  grew  '  choice  antique,* 

And  blues  turned  green  ! 


A   COLLEGE   REMINISCENCE.  101 

The  swarthy  suddenly  were  fair, 
And  yellow  changed  to  auburn  hair, 

Or  sunny  flax ; 

And  people  very  thin  and  flat, 
Like  Aldermen,  grew  round  and  fat 

On  canvas-backs ! 

I  well  remember  all  your  art 

To  make  the  best  of  every  part,  — 

I  am  certain  no  man 
Could  better  coax  a  wrinkle  out, 
Or  elevate  a  lowly  snout, 

Or  snub  a  Roman  ! 

Young  gentlemen  with  leaden  eyes 
Stared  wildly  out  on  lowering  skies, 

Quite  Corsair-fashion  ; 
And  greenish  orbs  got  very  blue, 
And  linsey-woolsey  maidens  grew 

Almost  Circassian  ! 

And  many  an  ancient  maiden  aunt 
As  lean  and  lank  as  John  O'Gaunt, 

Or  even  lanker, 

By  art  transformed  and  newly  drest 
Could  boast  for  once  as  full  a  chest 

As  —  any  banker  ! 


102  FAMILY    QUARRELS. 

Ah  !  we  were  jolly  youngsters  then, 
But  now  we're  sober-sided  men, 

Half  through  life's  journey  ; 
And  you've  turned  author,  Tom,  I  hear,  — 
And  I,  —  you'll  think  it  very  queer, — 

Have  turned  attorney  ! 

Heaven  bless  you,  Tom,  in  house  and  heart ! 
(That  we  should  live  so  far  apart, 

Is  much  a  pity,) 

And  may  you  multiply  your  name, 
And  have  a  very  '  crescent '  fame, 

Just  like  your  city ! 


FAMILY    QUARRELS. 
AN   EPIGRAM. 

*  A  FOOL,'  said  Jeanette,  '  is  a  creature  I  hate  ! ' 
*  But  hating,'  quoth  John,  '  is  immoral  ; 

Besides,  my  dear  girl,  it's  a  terrible  fate 
To  be  found  in  a  family  quarrel ! ' 


SONNET  TO  A  CLAM. 

Dum  taccnt  clamant 

INGLORIOUS  FRIEND  !  most  confident  I  am 

Thy  life  is  one  of  very  little  ease  ; 

Albeit  men  mock  thee  with  thy  similes 
And  prate  of  being  '  happy  as  a  clam  ! ' 
What  though  thy  shell  protects  thy  fragile  head 

From  the  sharp  bailiffs  of  the  briny  sea  ? 

Thy  valves  are,  sure,  no  safety-valves  to  thee, 
While  rakes  are  free  to  desecrate  thy  bed, 
And  bear  thee  off, — as  foemen  take  their  spoil,— 

Far  from  thy  friends  and  family  to  roam  ; 

Forced,  like  a  Hessian,  from  thy  native  home, 
To  meet  destruction  in  a  foreign  broil ! 

Though  thou  art  tender,  yet  thy  humble  bard 

Declares,  O  clam  !  thy  case  is  shocking  hard  ! 

(103) 


A  REASONABLE   PETITION. 

You  say,  dearest  girl,  you  esteem  me, 

And  hint  of  respectful  regard, 
And  I'm  certain  it  wouldn't  beseem  me 

Such  an  excellent  gift  to  discard. 
But  even  the  Graces,  you'll  own, 

Would  lose  half  their  beauty,  apart,  — 
And  Esteem,  when  she  stands  all  alone, 

Looks  most  unbecomingly  tart. 
So  grant  me,  dear  girl,  this  petition :  — 

If  Esteem  e'er  again  should  come  hither, 
Just  to  keep  her  in  cheerful  condition, 

Let  Love  come  in  company  with  her ! 

(104) 


GTJNEOPATHY. 

I  SAW  a  lady  yesterday, 

A  regular  M.  D., 
Who'd  taken  from  the  Faculty 

Her  medical  degree ; 
And  I  thought  if  ever  I  was  sick, 

My  doctor  she  should  be ! 

I  pity  the  deluded  man 
Who  foolishly  consults 

Another  man,  in  hopes  to  find 
Such  magical  results 

As  when  a  pretty  woman  lays 
Her  hand  upon  his  pulse  ! 

I  had  a  strange  disorder  once, 
A  kind  of  chronic  chill 
8 


106  GUNEOPATHT. 

That  all  the  doctors  in  the  town, 
With  all  their  vaunted  skill, 

Could  never  cure,  I'm  very  sure, 
With  powder  nor  with  pill ; 

I  don't  know  what  they  called  it 
In  their  pompous  terms  of  Art, 

Nor  if  they  thought  it  mortal 
In  such  a  vital  part,  — 

I  only  know  'twas  reckoned 

1  Something  icy  round  the  heart ! ' 

A  lady  came  —  her  presence  brought 

The  blood  into  my  ears  ! 
She  took  my  hand  —  and  something  like 

A  fever  now  appears ! 
Great  Galen  !  —  I  was  all  aglow, 

Though  I'd  been  cold  for  years  ! 

Perhaps  it  is'nt  every  case 
That's  fairly  in  her  reach, 

But  should  I  e'er  be  ill  again, 
I  fervently  beseech 

That  I  may  have,  for  life  or  death, 
A  lady  for  my  '  leech  ! ' 


A  PHILOSOPHICAL   QUERY. 


IF  Virtue  be  measured  by  what  we  resist, 

When  against  Inclination  we  strive, 
You  and  I  have  been  proved,  we  may  fairly  insist, 

The  most  virtuous  mortals  alive  ! 
Now  Virtue,  we  know,  is  the  brightest  of  pearls, 

But  as  Pleasure  is  hard  of  evasion, 
Should  we  envy,  or  pity,  the  stoical  churls 

Who  never  have  known  a  temptation  ? 

(107) 


COMIC  MISERIES. 

1. 

MY  dear  young  friend,  whose  shining  wit 

Sets  all  the  room  ablaze, 
Don't  think  yourself  '  a  happy  dog,' 

For  all  your  merry  ways  ; 
But  learn  to  wear  a  sober  phiz, 

Be  stupid,  if  you  can, 
It's  such  a  very  serious  thing 

To  be  a  funny  man ! 

2. 

You're  at  an  evening  party,  with 

A  group  of  pleasant  folks,  — 
You  venture  quietly  to  crack 

The  least  of  little  jokes,  — 

(108) 


C03IIC   MISERIES.  109 

A  lady  doesn't  catch  the  point, 

And  begs  you  to  explain  — 
Alas  !  for  one  who  drops  a  jest 

And  takes  it  up  again  ! 

3. 

You're  talking  deep  philosophy 

With  very  special  force, 
To  edify  a  clergyman 

With  suitable  discourse, — 
You  think  you've  got  him  —  when  he  calls 

A  friend  across  the  way, 
And  begs  you'll  say  that  funny  thing 

You  said  the  other  day ! 

4. 

You  drop  a  pretty  jeu-de-mot 

Into  a  neighbor's  ears, 
Who  likes  to  give  you  credit  for 

The  clever  thing  he  hears, 
And  so  he  hawks  your  jest  about, 

The  old,  authentic  one, 
Just  breaking  off  the  point  of  it, 

And  leaving  out  the  pun  ! 


110  COMIC   MISERIES 

5. 

By  sudden  change  in  politics, 

Or  sadder  change  in  Polly, 
You,  lose  your  love,  or  loaves,  and  fall 

A  prey  to  melancholy, 
While  every  body  marvels  why 

Your  mirth  is  under  ban,  — 
They  think  your  very  grief  *  a  joke,' 

You're  such  a  funny  man ! 

6. 

You  follow  up  a  stylish  card 

That  bids  you  come  and  dine, 
And  bring  along  your  freshest  wit, 

(To  pay  for  musty  wine,) 
You're  looking  very  dismal,  when 

My  lady  bounces  in, 
And  wonders  what  you're  thinking  of, 

And  why  you  don't  begin  ! 

7. 
You're  telling  to  a  knot  of  friends 

A  fancy-tale  of  woes 
That  cloud  your  matrimonial  sky, 

And  banish  all  repose,  — 


COMIC    MISERIES.  Ill 

A  solemn  lady  overhears 

The  story  of  your  strife, 
And  tells  the  town  the  pleasant  news  :  — 

You  quarrel  with  your  wife  ! 

8. 
My  dear  young  friend,  whose  shining  wit 

Sets  all  the  room  ablaze, 
Don't  think  yourself  '  a  happy  dog,' 

For  all  your  merry  ways  ; 
But  learn  to  wear  a  sober  phiz, 

Be  stupid,  if  you  can, 
It's  such  a  very  serious  thing 

To  be  a  funny  man ! 


THE   OLD   CHAPEL-BELL. 

A   BALLAD.1 

• 

WITHIN  a  churchyard's  sacred  ground, 

Whose  fading  tablets  tell 
Where  they  who  built  the  village  church 

In  solemn  silence  dwell, 
Half-hidden  in  the  earth,  there  lies 

An  ancient  Chapel-Bell. 

Broken,  decayed  and  covered  o'er 
With  mouldering  leaves  and  rust ; 

Its  very  name  and  date  concealed 
Beneath  a  cankering  crust ; 

Forgotten  —  like  its  early  friends, 
Who  sleep  in  neighboring  dust. 

1  This  ballad  is  a  paraphrase  of  a  beautiful  prose  tale  -written  by 
Mrs.  ALICE  B.  NEAL,  and  published  anonymously,  several  years  ago, 
as  a  translation  '  from  the  German.'  The  story  is  so  exceedingly  Ger- 
manesque  in  its  style  and  spirit,  that  the  best  scholars  in  the  country 
did  not  suspect  its  American  origin,  until  the  fact  was  recently  dis- 
closed by  the  gifted  authoress. 

(112) 


THE    OLD    CHAPEL-BELL.  ]13 

Yet  it  was  once  a  trusty  Bell, 

Of  most  sonorous  lung, 
And  many  a  joyous  wedding  peal, 

And  many  a  knell  had  rung, 
Ere  Time  had  cracked  its  brazen  sides, 

And  broke  its  iron  tongue. 

And  many  a  youthful  heart  had  danced 

In  merry  Christmas-time, 
To  hear  its  pleasant  roundelay, 

Sung  out  in  ringing  rhyme  ; 
And  many  a  worldly  thought  been  checked 

To  list  its  Sabbath  chime. 

A  youth  —  a  bright  and  happy  boy, 

One  sultry  summer's  day, 
Aweary  of  his  bat  and  ball, 

Chanced  hitherward  to  stray, 
To  read  a  little  book  he  had 

And  rest  him  from  his  play. 

*  A  soft  and  shady  spot  is  this  ! ' 

The  rosy  youngster  cried, 
And  sat  him  down,  beneath  a  tree, 

That  ancient  Bell  beside  ; 
(But,  hidden  in  the  tangled  grass, 

The  Bell  he  ne'er  espied.) 
8 


114  THE    OLD    CHAPEL-BELL. 

Anon,  a  mist  fell  on  his  book, 
The  letters  seemed  to  stir, 

And  though,  full  oft,  his  flagging  sight 
The  boy  essayed  to  spur, 

The  mazy  page  was  quickly  lost 
Beneath  a  cloudy  blur. 

And  while  he  marvelled  much  at  this, 
And  wondered  how  it  came, 

He  felt  a  languor  creeping  o'er 
His  young  and  weary  frame, 

And  heard  a  voice,  a  gentle  voice, 
That  plainly  spoke  his  name. 

That  gentle  voice  that  named  his  name, 
Entranced  him  like  a  spell, 

Upon  his  ear,  so  very  near 
And  suddenly  it  fell ; 

Yet  soft  and  musical,  as  'twere 
The  whisper  of  a  bell. 

'Since  last  I  spoke,'  the  voice  began, — 
'  Seems  many  a  dreary  year  ! 

(Albeit,  'tis  only  since  thy  birth 
I've  lain  neglected  here) 

Pray  list,  while  I  rehearse  a  tale 
Behooves  thee  much  to  hear. 


THE    OLD    CHAPEL-BELL.  115 

'  Once,  from  yon  ivied  tower,  I  watched 

The  villagers,  around, 
And  gave  to  all  their  joys  and  griefs 

A  sympathetic  sound,  — 
But  most  are  sleeping,  now,  within 

This  consecrated  ground. 

'  I  used  to  ring  my  merriest  peal 

To  hail  the  blushing  bride ; 
I  sadly  tolled  for  men  cut  down 

In  strength  and  manly  pride  ; 
And  solemnly, —  not  mournfully, — 

When  little  children  died. 

'  But,  chief,  my  duty  was  to  bid 

The  villagers  repair, 
On  each  returning  Sabbath  morn, 

Unto  the  House  of  Prayer, 
And  in  his  own  appointed  place, 

The  Savior's  mercy  share. 

'Ah  !  well  I  mind  me  of  a  child, 

A  gleesome,  happy  maid, 
Who  came  with  constant  step,  to  church 

In  comely  garb  arrayed, 
And  knelt  her  down  full  solemnly, 

And  penitently  prayed. 


116  THE    OLD    CHAPEL-BELL. 

»  '  And  oft,  when  church  was  done,  I  marked 

That  little  maiden  near 
This  pleasant  spot,  with  book  in  hand, 

As  you  are  sitting  here, — 
She  read  the  Story  of  the  Cross, 

And  wept  with  grief  sincere. 

'  Years  rolled  away,  —  and  I  beheld 
The  child  to  woman  grown  ; 

Her  cheek  was  fairer,  and  her  eye 
With  brighter  lustre  shone  ; 

But  childhood's  truth  and  innocence 
Were  still  the  maiden's  own. 

'  I  never  rang  a  merrier  peal, 

Than  when,  a  joyous  bride, 
She  stood  beneath  the  sacred  porch, 

A  noble  youth  beside, 
And  plighted  him  her  maiden  troth, 

In  maiden  love  and  pride. 

'  I  never  tolled  a  deeper  knell, 

Than  when,  in  after  years, 
They  laid  her  in  the  churchyard  here, 

Where  this  low  mound  appears  — 
(The  very  grave,  my  boy,  that  you 

Are  watering  now  with  tears  !) 


THE    OLD    CHAPEL-BELL.  117 

'  It  is  thy  mother  !  gentle  boy, 

That  claims  this  tale  of  mine  — 
Thou  art  a  flower  whose  fatal  birth 

Destroyed  the  parent  vine  ! 
A  precious  flower  art  thou,  my  child,  — 

TWO  LIVES  WERE  GIVEN  FOR  THINE  ! 

'  One  was  thy  sainted  mother's,  when 

She  gave  thee  mortal  birth  ; 
And  one  thy  Savior's,  when  in  death, 

He  shook  the  solid  earth  ; 
Go  !  boy,  and  live  as  may  befit 

Thy  life's  exceeding  worth  ! ' 

The  boy  awoke,  as  from  a  dream, 

And,  thoughtful,  looked  around, 
But  nothing  saw  save  at  his  feet, 

His  mother's  lowly  mound, 
And  by  its  side  that  ancient  Bell 

Half-hidden  in  the  ground  ! 


THE   LADY  ANN. 

A  BALLAD. 

'  SHE'LL  soon  be  here,  the  Lady  ANN,' 

The  children  cried  in  glee ; 
'  She  always  comes  at  four  o'clock, 

And  now  it's  striking  three.' 

At  stroke  of  four  the  lady  came, 

A  lady  passing  fair  ; 
And  she  sat  and  gazed  adown  the  road, 

With  a  long  and  eager  stare. 

'  The  mail !  the  mail ! '  the  idlers  cried, 

At  sight  of  a  coach-and-four ; 
'  The  mail !    the  mail ! '  and  at  the  word, 

The  coach  was  at  the  door. 

a  is) 


THE   LADY   ANN.  119 

Up  sprang  in  haste  the  Lady  ANN, 

And  marked  with  anxious  eye 
The  travellers,  who,  one  by  one, 

Were  slowly  passing  by. 

«  Alack  !  alack  ! '  the  lady  cried, 

'  He  surely  named  to-day  ; 
He'll  come  to-morrow,  then,'  she  sighed, 

And  turning,  strolled  away. 

c  'Tis  passing  odd,  upon  my  word,' 

The  landlord  now  began  ; 
*  A  strange  romance  !  —  that  woman,  Sirs, 

Is  called  The  Lady  ANN. 

'  She  dwells  hard  by  upon  the  hill, 

The  widow  of  Sir  JOHN, 
Who  died  abroad,  come  August  next, 

Just  twenty  years  agone. 

4  A  hearty  neighbor,  Sirs,  was  he, 

A  bold,  true-hearted  man  ; 
And  a  fonder  pair  were  seldom  seen, 

Than  he  and  Lady  ANN. 


120  THE    LADY   AXX. 

'  They  scarce  had  been  a  twelvemonth  wed, 
When  !  —  ill  betide  the  day  !  — 

Sir  JOHN  was  called  to  go  in  haste 
Some  hundred  miles  away. 

*  Ne'er  lovers  in  the  fairy  tales 

A  truer  love  could  boast ; 
And  many  were  the  gentle  words 
That  came  and  went  by  post. 

*  A  month  or  more  had  passed  away, 

When  by  the  post  came  down 
The  joyous  news  that  such  a  day 
Sir  JOHN  would  be  in  town. 

*  Full  gleesome  was  the  Lady  ANN 

To  read  the  welcome  word, 
And  promptly  at  the  hour  she  came, 
To  meet  her  wedded  lord. 

*  Alas  !  alas  !  he  came  not  back  ! 

There  only  came  instead, 
A  mournful  message  by  the  post, 
That  good  Sir  JOHN  was  dead  ! 


THE    LADY   ANN.  121 


'  One  piercing  shriek,  and  Lady  ANN 
Had  swooned  upon  the  floor; 

Good  Sirs,  it  was  a  fearful  grief 
That  gentle  lady  bore  ! 

*  We  raised  her  up  ;  her  ebbing  life 

Began  again  to  dawn  ; 
She  muttered  wildly  to  herself, — 
'Twas  plain  her  wits  were  gone. 

'  A  strange  forgetfulness  came  o'er 
Her  sad,  bewildered  mind, 

And  to  the  grief  that  drove  her  mad 
Her  memory  was  blind  ! 

*  Ah  !  since  that  hour  she  little  wots 

Full  twenty  years  are  fled  ! 
She  little  wots,  poor  Lady  ANN  ! 
Her  wedded  lord  is  dead. 

'  But  each  returning  day  she  deems 
The  day  he  fixed  to  come ; 

And  ever  at  the  wonted  hour 
She's  here  to  greet  him  home. 
9 


122  THE   LADY   ANN. 

*  And  when  the  coach  is  at  the  door, 

She  marks  with  eager  eye 
The  travellers,  as  one  by  one 
They're  slowly  passing  by. 

*  "  Alack  !  "  she  cries,  in  plaintive  tone, 

"  He  surely  named  to-day  ! 
He'll  come  to-morrow,  then,"  she  eighs, 
And  turning,  strolls  away.' 


GIRLHOOD. 


WITH  rosy  cheeks,  and  merry-dancing  curls, 

And  eyes  of  tender  light, 
O,  very  beautiful  are  little  girls, 

And  goodly  to  the  sight ! 

Here  comes  a  group  to  seek  my  lonely  bower, 

Ere  waning  Autumn  dies,  — 
How  like  the  dew-drops  on  a  drooping  flower, 

Are  smiles  from  gentle  eyes  ! 

What  beaming  gladness  lights  each  fairy  face 

The  while  the  elves  advance, 
Now  speeding  swiftly  in  a  gleesome  race, 

Now  whirling  in  a  dance  ! 

(123) 


124  GIRLHOOD. 

What  heavenly  pleasure  o'er  the  spirit  rolls, 

When  all  the  air  along 
Floats  the  sweet  music  of  untainted  souls, 

In  bright,  unsullied  song  ! 

The  sacred  nymphs  that  guard  this  sylvan  ground 

May  sport  unseen  with  these, 
And  joy  to  hear  their  ringing  laugh  resound 

Among  the  clustering  trees  ! 

With  rosy  cheeks,  and  merry-dancing  curls, 

And  eyes  of  tender  light, 
O,  very  beautiful  are  little  girls, 

And  goodly  to  the  sight  1 


BEREAVEMENT. 

A   SONNET. 

NAY,  weep  not,  dearest,  though  the  child  be  dead, 

He  lives  again  in  Heaven's  unclouded  life, 
With  other  angels  that  have  early  fled 

From  these  dark  scenes  of  sorrow,  sin,  and  strife  ; 
Nay,  weep  not,  dearest,  though  thy  yearning  love 

Would  fondly  keep  for  earth  its  fairest  flowers, 
And  e'en  deny  to  brighter  realms  above 

The  few  that  deck  this  dreary  world  of  ours  : 
Though  much  it  seems  a  wonder  and  a  woe 

That  one  so  loved  should  be  so  early  lost, 
And  hallowed  tears  may  unforbidden  flow 

To  mourn  the  blossom  that  we  cherished  most  — 
Yet  all  is  well ;  GOD'S  good  design  I  see, 
That  where  our  treasure  is,  our  hearts  may  be  ! 

(125) 


MY  BOYHOOD. 


AH  me  !  those  joyous  days  are  gone  ! 
I  little  dreamt,  till  they  were  flown, 

How  fleeting  were  the  hours  ! 
For,  lest  he  break  the  pleasing  spell, 
Time  bears  for  youth  a  muffled  bell, 

And  hides  his  face  in  flowers  ! 

Ah  !  well  I  mind  me  of  the  days, 
Still  bright  in  memory's  flattering  rays, 

When  all  was  fair  and  new  ; 
When  knaves  were  only  found  in  books, 
And  friends  were  known  by  friendly  looks, 

And  love  was  always  true  ! 

(126) 


MY    BOYHOOD.  127 

While  yet  of  sin  I  scarcely  dreamed, 
And  every  thing  was  what  it  seemed, 

And  all  too  bright  for  choice  ; 
When  fays  were  wont  to  guard  my  sleep, 
And  Crusoe  still  could  make  me  weep, 

And  Santaclaus,  rejoice  ! 

When  Heaven  was  pictured  to  my  thought, 
(In  spite  of  all  my  mother  taught 

Of  happiness  serene) 
A  theatre  of  boyish  plays  — 
One  glorious  round  of  holidays, 

Without  a  school  between ! 

Ah  me  !  those  joyous  days  are  gone  ; 
I  little  dreamt,  till  they  were  flown, 

How  fleeting  were  the  hours  ! 
For,  lest  he  break  the  pleasing  spell, 
Time  bears  for  youth  a  muffled  bell, 

And  hides  his  face  in  flowers  ! 


THE    TIMES. 


THE   TIMES: 

A   POEM  READ  BEFORE  THE  BOSTOX   MERCANTILE   LIBRARY  ASSOCIA- 
TION,  NOVEMBEB    14,    1849. 

THE  Muses  once,  —  so  sacred  myths  declare,  — 
(See  classic  Keightly,  Cruzer,  or  Lempriere,) 
On  cleft  Parnassus  held  a  lofty  seat, 
Where,  in  the  quiet  of  their  calm  retreat, 
With  sweet  accord  they  spent  the  rosy  hours, 
And  wove  bright  garlands  of  perennial  flowers ; 
Nine  blooming  sisters,  each  with  separate  aim, 
Yet  all  rejoicing  in  the  common  fame, 
Alone  attentive  to  their  high  behests, 
No  jealous  cares  disturbed  their  tender  breasts, 
For  Phoebus,  watchful  of  the  sacred  Nine, 
Warned  off  intruders  with  a  magic  sign  !  — 
You've  seen  the  like  in  Lowell  mills,  where  scores, 
In  gold  or  ochre,  guard  the  inner  doors  ; 
A  frequent  sight  in  any  factory  town, 
Where  idle  cit,  or  curious  country  clown, 

(131) 


132  THE    TIMES. 

Reads,  at  a  glance,  in  letters  large  and  clear, 
The  startling  caution  — '  No  admittance  here  ! ' 

What  amorous  bard,  the  hidden  Nine  to  view,  — 
First  scaled  the  wall,  or  forced  a  passage  through, — 
What  '  gay  Lothario '  found  at  length  a  way 
To  win  the  maids  and  lead  them  all  astray, 
Is  yet  unknown  —  this  only  can  be  told, 
Some  curst  intruder  broke  Apollo's  fold, 
And  all-remorseless  for  the  grave  abuse, 
In  Phoebus'  spite  let  all  the  Muses  loose  ! 
Far  from  their  old  Parnassian  groves  to  roam,  — 
To  grace,  instead,  some  airy  garret-home, 
(Where,  free  from  bailiffs,  poetasters  rhyme, 
And,  thankless,  waste  their  tapers  and  their  time, 
While  through  the  night  they  fondly  toil  for  nought, 
Angling  in  ink-stands  for  some  gudgeon-thought). 
Nor  this  the  worst  that  sprang  from  such  a  cause. 
Released  at  once  from  chaste  Diana's  laws, 
All  moral  canons  eager  now  to  waive, 
Save  only  those  that  wanton  Nature  gave, 
The  "Nine  are  grown  a  thousand  !  — and  the  Earth 
Hails  every  morning  yet  another  birth  ! 

What  hinders  then,  when  every  youth  may  choose 
As  Fancy  bids,  a  musket  or  a  muse, 


THE    TIMES.  133 

And  throw  his  lead  among  his  fellow-men, 
From  the  dark  muzzle  of  a  gun  or  pen ; 
When  blooming  school-girls,  who  absurdly  think 
That  nought  but  drapery  can  be  spoiled  with  ink, 
Ply  ceaseless  quills  that,  true  to  early  use, 
Keep  the  old  habit  of  the  pristine  goose, 
While  each,  a  special  Sappho  in  her  teens, 
Shines  forth  a  goddess  in  the  magazines ; 
When  waning  spinsters,  happy  to  rehearse 
Their  maiden  griefs  in  doubly  grievous  verse, 
Write  doleful  ditties,  or  distressful  strains, 
To  wicked  rivals,  or  unfaithful  swains, 
Or  serenade  at  night's  bewitching  noon, 
The  mythic  man  whose  home  is  in  the  moon  ; 
When  pattern  wives  no  thrifty  arts  possess, 
Save  that  of  weaving  —  fustian  for  the  Press  ; 
Write  Lyrics,  heedless  of  their  scorching  buns, 
Dress  up  their  Sonnets,  but  neglect  their  sons, 
Make  dainty  dough-nuts  from  Parnassian  wheat, 
And  fancy-stockings  for  poetic  feet  ; 
While  husbands,  —  those  who  love  their  coffee  hot, 
And  like  no  *  fire  '  that  doesn't  boil  the  pot,  — 
Wish  old  Apollo,  just  to  plague  his  life, 
Had,  for  his  own,  a  literary  wife  ! 

What  hinders  then  that  I,  a  sober  elf, 
V«io,  like  the  others,  keep  a  Muse  myself, 


134  THE    TIMES. 

Should  venture  here,  as  kind  occasion  lends 
A  fitting  time  to  please  these  urgent  friends, 
To  waive  at  once  my  modest  Muse's  doubt, 
And,  jockey-like,  to  trot  the  lady  out  ?  — 

An  honest  creature,  I  am  bound  to  say, 
Who  does  her  duty  in  a  roughish  way  ; 
A  laughing  jade  of  not  ungentle  mould, 
Although,  in  sooth,  she's  something  apt  to  scold, 
And,  like  some  worthy  people  you  have  seen, 
Who' re  always  talking  sharper  than  they  mean, 
A  genuine  Sphinx  as  ever  poet  sung, 
With  much  good  nature  and  a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Yet,  like  your  neighbor,  be  it  understood, 
She  never  censures  but  for  public  good, 
And  like  her,  too,  would  feel  herself  unsexed 
If  voted  angry  when  she's  only  vexed  ! 

Don't  let  me  rouse  unreasonable  fears, 
While  I,  like  Brutus,  ask  you  for  your  ears ; 
Bear  as  you  can  the  transient  twinge  of  pain, 
In  half  an  hour  you'll  have  them  back  again. 

We're  a  vast  people  —  that's  beyond  a  doubt  - 
And  nothing  loath  to  let  the  secret  out  ! 
Vain  were  his  labors  who  should  now  begin 
To  stop  our  growth,  or  fence  the  country  in ! 


THE    TIMES.  135 

Let  the  bold  sceptic  who  denies  our  worth, 

Just  hear  it  proved  on  any  '  Glorious  Fourth,' 

When  patriot-tongues  the  thrilling  tale  rehearse 

In  grand  orations,  or  resounding  verse  ; 

When  poor  John  Bull  beholds  his  navies  sink 

Before  the  blast,  in  swelling  floods  of  ink, 

And  vents  his  wrath  till  all  around  is  blue, 

To  see  his  armies  yearly  flogged  anew ; 

While  honest  Dutchmen,  round  the  speaker's  stand, 

Forget,  for  once,  their  dearer  father-land  ; 

And  thrifty  Caledonians  bless  the  fate 

That  gives  them  freedom  at  so  cheap  a  rate, 

And  a  clear  right  to  celebrate  the  day, 

And  not  a  baubee  for/the  boon  to  pay  ; 

And  Gallia's  children  prudently  relieve 

Their  bursting  bosoms,  with  as  loud  a  '  vive  ' 

For  '  L'Amerique,'  as  when  their  voices  swell 

With  equal  glory  for  '  la  bagatelle  ; ' 

And  ardent  sons  of  Erin's  blessed  Isle, 

Grow  patriotic  in  the  Celtic  style, 

And,  all  for  friendship,  bruise  each  other's  eyes, 

As  when. Saint  Patrick  claims  the  sacrifice  ; 

While  thronging  Yankees,  all  intent  to  hear 

As  if  the  speaker  were  an  auctioneer, 


136  THE   TIMES. 

Swell  with  the  theme,  till  every  mother's  son 
Feels  all  his  country's  magnitude  his  own  ! 

You'll  hear  about  that  sturdy  little  flock 
Who  landed  once  on  Plymouth's  barren  rock, 
Daring  the  dangers  of  the  angry  main, 
For  civil  freedom  and  for  godly  gain  ; 
An  honest,  frugal,  hardy,  dauntless  band, 
Who  sought  a  refuge  in  this  Western  land, 
Where  (if  their  own  quaint  language  I  may  use 
That  carried  back  the  first  Colonial  news,) 
'  Where  all  the  saints  may  worship  as  they  wish,   . 
And  catch  abundance  of  the  finest  fish  ! ' 

You'll  hear,  amazed,  the  hardships  they  endured, 
To  what  untold  privations  were  inured, — 
What  wondrous  feats  of  stout,  herculean  toil, 
Ere  they  subdued  the  savage  and  the  soil, 
And  drave,  at  last,  the  intruding  heathen  out, 
Till  Witches,  Quakers,  all  were  put  to  rout ! 

Here  grant  the  Muse  one  moment  to  explain, 
Lest  you  accuse  her  of  a  mocking  strain. 
I  love  the  Puritan ;  and  from  my  youth 
Was  taught  to  admire  his  valor  and  his  truth. 
The  veriest  caviller  must  acknowledge  still 
His  honest  purpose,  and  his  manly  will. 


THE    TIMES.  137 

I  own  I  reverence  that  peculiar  race 
Who  valued  steeples  less  than  Christian  grace, 
Preferred  a  hut  where  frost  and  freedom  reigned, 
To  sumptuous  halls  at  freedom's  cost  obtained, 
And  proudly  scorning  all  that  royal  knaves, 
For  bartered  conscience  sold  to  cringing  slaves, 
Gave  up  their  homes  for  rights  respected  more 
Than  all  the  allurements  of  their  native  shore, 
In  stranger  lands  their  tattered  flag  unfurled, 
And  taught  this  doctrine  to  a  startled  world  : 
*  Mitres  and  thrones  are  man-created  things,  — 
We  own  no  master,  save  the  King  of  kings ! ' 

'Tis  little  marvel  that  their  honored  name 
Bears,  as  it  must,  some  maculae  of  shame  ; 
'Tis  only  pity  that  they  e'er  forgot 
The  golden  lessons  their  experience  taught ; 
Thought '  Toleration '  due  to  '  saints '  alone, 
And  '  Rights  of  Conscience '  only  meant  their  own  ! 
Enforcing  laws,  concocted  to  their  need, 
On  all  nonjurors  to  the  ruling  creed, 
Till  Baptists  groaned  beneath  their  iron  heel, 
And  Quakers  quaked  with  unaccustomed  zeal ! 

And  when  I  hear,  as  oft  the  listener  may 
In  song  and  sermon  on  a  festal  day, 


138  THE    TIMES. 

Their  virtues  lauded  to  the  wondering  skies, 

As  none  were  e'er  so  great,  or  good,  or  wise, 

I  straight  bethink  me  of  the  Irish  wit, 

(A  people  famed  for  many  a  ready  hit,) 

Who,  sitting  once,  and  rather  ill  at  ease, 

To  hear,  in  prose,  such  huge  hyperboles, 

Gave  for  a  toast,  to  chide  the  fulsome  tone, 

4  Old  Plymouth  Rock,  —  the  Yankee  Blarney-stone  ! » 

But  to  resume,  —  as  other  preachers  say, 
Led  by  their  twentieth  episode  astray, 
And  thus  recall  their  pristine  theme  anew, 
Lost  in  the  mazes  of  the  shifting  view,  — 
But  to  resume  :  these  hardy  pioneers 
Grow,  in  the  flight  of  scarce  a  hundred  years, 
Till  where  a  few  weak  colonies  were  seen, 
Thrive  in  their  strength  '  the  glorious  Old  Thirteen  ; ' 
And  these,  anon,  released  from  British  rule, 
Swarm  like  the  pupils  of  a  parish  school ; 
And  still  they  flourish  at  a  wondrous  rate, 
Towns  follow  towns,  and  state  succeeds  to  state, 
Until,  at  last,  among  its  crimson  bars, 
Our  country's  banner,  crowded  full  of  stars, 
O'er  Freedom's  sons  in  happy  triumph  waves, 
Some  twenty  millions,  —  not  to  count  the  slaves  ! 


THE    TIMES.  139 

We're  fond  of  Missions,  and  rejoice  to  lend 
Our  ready  aid  the  Gospel  light  to  send 
To  chase  the  gloom  that  clouds  the  Pagan's  soul, 
And  haply  make  his  broken  spirit  whole ; 
To  take  the  wanderer  led  by  sin  astray, 
And  win  his  footsteps  to  the  better  way. 
No  cavilling  voice  at  schemes  like  this  I  raise, — 
All  this  is  well,  and  to  the  nation's  praise. 
Still  let  the  work  with  growing  force  proceed, 
That  kindly  answers  to  the  Heathen's  need. 
But  O,  that  some  brave  proselyte  would  come 
And  preach  good  morals  to  the  folks  at  home  ! 
O,  that  the  next  Australian  whom  they  get 
Safe  in  the  meshes  of  the  Gospel  net, 
Straight  to  our  country  may  be  kindly  brought, 
With  all  the  Christian  doctrine  he  has  got, 
That  he  may  teach  it,  uncorrupt,  and  clear 
Of  all  perversion,  to  our  Heathen  here  ! 
Accursed  War,  and  deadly  lust  of  Gold, 
These  and  their  horrors  let  his  eyes  behold, 
Now,  —  in  the  moral  summer  of  the  days, — 
Here,  —  in  the  focus  of  the  Gospel  blaze, — 
How  would  he  beg  the  doctors  to  explain, 
And  solve  the  puzzle  ere  it  turned  his  brain ! 
And  when  their  best  excuses  he  had  heard, 
How  would  his  breast  with  honest  zeal  be  stirred 


140  THE    TIMES. 

To  teach  our  graduates  in  the  Christian  school 
The  simple  lessons  of  the  Golden  Rule!. 
And  how,  the  while  he  spoke  with  pleasure  true, 
As  one  unfolding  something  good  and  new, 
How  would  the  wings  of  his  amazement  soar 
To  find  their  ears  had  heard  it  all  before ! 

O,  murderous  War !  how  long  shall  History  choose 
Thee  for  the  favorite  topic  of  her  muse  ? 
As  if  the  real  business  of  mankind, 
The  noblest  purpose  of  the  immortal  mind, 
Were  shown  in  him  who  has  the  greatest  skill 
In  that  old  mystery  —  the  art  to  kill ! 
And  he  adorned  with  most  heroic  grace, 
Who  deals  the  largest  slaughter  to  the  race  ! 

A  neighboring  people  rich  in  landed  spoils, 
But  weak  with  ignorance  and  domestic  broils, 
A  haughty  nation,  full  of  pride  for  what 
Their  fathers  were,  although  themselves  are  not ; 
A  people  fond  of  pageants  and  parade, 
Replete  at  once  with  gas  and  gasconade, 
With  all  the  vapor  of  the  Spanish  sire, 
Without  a  flicker  of  Castilian  fire,  — 
A  race  like  this,  —  O  tell  it  not  in  Gath  ! 
Excites  our  avarice  and  provokes  our  wrath, 


THE    TIMES.  .     141 

And  so  we  loose  the  fiendish  dogs  of  war, 
And  ply  our  stripes  to  gain  another  star ! 

Tell  not,  ye  Rabbles  of  the  whiggish  creed, 
Who  trim  your  doctrines  to  your  party's  need, 
And  let  your  lips  with  fluent  phrases  move 
To  censure  measures  which  your  acts  approve,  — 
Tell  not,  except  to  credulous  marines, 
How  you  abhor  our  recent  warlike  scenes, 
And  don't  again  repeat  that  precious  joke 
Which  gives  the  odium  all  to  Col.  Polk, 
For  he  may  find  who  probes  the  matter  well, 
At  least  a  dozen  Colonels  in  the  shell ! 
Pray  just  review  the  leaders  of  the  bands, 
And,  as  you  pass  them,  let  them  raise  their  hands  ; 
Count  well  the  blades  that  glitter  in  the  sun, 
And  mark  their  gallant  bearers,  one  by  one,  — 
For  every  whig  whose  sword  your  eye  may  catch, 
You'll  scarcely  find  a  '  loco-foco '  match  ! 

We're  all  alike,  —  no  thinking  man  defines 
The  people's  temper  by  their  party  lines. 
With  bright  exceptions,  few  and  far  between, 
Like  spots  of  verdure  in  a  winter  scene, 
From  Rio  Grande  to  Penobscot's  flood, 
The  whole  vast  nation  loves  the  smell  of  blood  ! 


142       .  THE    TIMES. 

But  wars  cost  money  ;  and  though  fond  of  wars, 
We  worship  Mammon  quite  as  much  as  Mars, 
And  so  consent  the  battle  to  forego, 
And  wait  till  Interest  justifies  the  blow. 
Meantime,  though  Mars  upon  the  shelf  is  laid, 
We  yet  can  summon  Draco  to  our  aid. 
The  cockpit's  vulgar ;  and  the  pleasant  game 
Of  baiting  bears  is  reckoned  much  the  same  ; 
'  The  manly  Ring'  is  held  improper,  too  ; 
The  Duel's  wicked,  and  will  never  do  ; 
'Tis  plain  to  see  as  any  comet's  tail, 
That  war's  immoral  on  so  small  a  scale  ! 
But  Draco's  grave,  decorous  and  discreet, 
And  gives  diversions  in  a  mode  so  neat, 
'The  most  fastidious,'  —  in  the  showman  phrase, — 
Can't  be  offended  with  his  bloody  ways. 
For,  like  the  doctors,  though  he  cut  and  bleed, 
He  shows  a  broad  diploma  for  the  deed ! 
As  boys  expend  their  zoologic  rage 
On  annual  tigers  in  a  travelling  cage, 
So,  by  the  strictest  pathologic  rule, 
A  monthly  hanging  keeps  the  nation  cool  ! 

The  public  right  to  guard  the  common  weal 
From  thief  and  ruffian,  nought  but  maniac  zeal 


THE   TIMES.  143 

Will  e'er  deny,  while  every  worthy  cause 
Rests  in  the  proper  sanction  of  the  laws. 
But  when  will  men  the  Christian  lesson  learn, 
That  'tis  not  theirs  to  throttle  or  to  burn 
Their  brother  sinner  to  his  mortal  hurt, 
Only  because  they  deem  it  his  desert  ? 
If  no  stern  need,  with  loud  imperious  call, 
Demand  the  forfeit,  be  it  great  or  small, 
Let  not  your  heart  usurp  the  sacred  throne 
Of  Him  who  said  that  vengeance  was  his  own ! 
In  meek  submission  drop  the  uplifted  rod, 
And  leave  the  sinner  to  the  sinner's  God  ! 

In  vain  we  boast  the  freedom  Nature  gave, 
Alas,  the  Ethiop's  not  the  only  slave  ! 
When  from  their  chains  shall  Saxon  minds  be  freed, 
The  slaves  to  lust,  to  party,  and  to  creed  ? 

Slaves  to  their  Clique,  who  favor  or  oppose 
As  crafty  leaders  pull  the  party-nose  ; 
While  the  '  dear  country,'  as  the  reader  learns,1 
Is  saved  or  ruined  in  quadrennial  turns  ! 

Slaves  to  the  Mode,  who  pinch  the  aching  waist 
And  mend  God's  image  to  the  Gallic  taste  ; 
Who  sell  their  comfort  for  a  narrow  boot, 
Nor  heed  the  '  corn-laws  '  of  the  suffering  foot ! 


144  THE    TIMES. 

Slaves  to  the  ruling  Sentiment,  whose  choice 
Is  but  the  echo  of  the  public  voice, 
While  their  own  thoughts  the  wretches  fear  to  speak,2 
Not  Sundays  only,  but  throughout  the  week  ! 

Slaves  to  Antiquity,  who  put  their  trust 
In  mouldy  dogmas,  mummies,  moth,  and  rust ; 
Who  buy  old  nothings  at  the  highest  cost, 
And  deem  no  art  worth  having  till  it's  lost ! 

Slaves  to  their  Sect,  who  deem  all  heavenly  light 
Through  one  small  taper  cheers  the  moral  night, — 
Which,  should  it  fail  to  throw  its  radiant  spark, 
Would  leave  the  hapless  nations  in  the  dark  ! 

Slaves  to  Consistency  and  prudent  fears, 
As  if  mistakes  grew  sacred  with  their  years  ! 
Fearful  of  change,  and  much  ashamed  to  show 
They're  wiser  now  than  twenty  years  ago, 
Because,  forsooth,  'twould  make  the  matter  plain 
They  once  were  wrong,  and  may  be  so  again  ! 

Slaves  to  Ambition  and  the  lust  of  fame 
Who  sell  their  substance  for  a  shadowy  name, 
And  barter  happy  years  for  one  brief  hour 
Of  courtly  dalliance  with  the  harlot,  Power  ! 

Bond  slaves  to  Avarice,  who  perversely  soil 
Their  willing  hands  with  hard,  unceasing  toil, 


THE    TIMES.  145 

For  no  reward  except  the  menial  strife, 
As  knaves  turn  tread-mills  in  a  convict  life  ! 

But  least  the  Muse  should  give  her  hearers  pain 
By  overstraining  her  heroic  strain, — 
A  metre  strong  and  well-contrived,  in  sooth, 
To  bear  full  measures  of  satiric  truth, 
But  rather  grave,  and  something  apt  to  tire 
Those  ears  perverse  that  love  an  easy  lyre,  — 
She'll  drop  the  proud  heroic  for  a  while 
For  a  new  topic  and  a  nimbler  style, 
And,  just  for  change,  endeavor  to  unfold 
The  shining  treasures  of  the  Land  of  Gold ! 


EL  DORADO. 

1. 

Hurrah  for  the  land  where  the  moor  and  the  mountain 

Are  sparkling  with  treasures  no  language  hath  told, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  river  and  spray  of  the  fountain, 

Are  bright  with  the  glitter  of  genuine  gold  ! 
Who  cares  for  the  pleasures  and  duties  of  home, 

And  all  the  refinements  that  grow  in  its  bowers  ? 
To  the  happy  Dorado  away  we  will  roam, 

'Twill  be  time  to  '  refine  '  when  the  metal  is  ours! 
10 


146  THE   TIMES. 

2. 

Hurrah  for  the  country  where  Mercury  and  Mammon 

Are  the  rulers  enthroned  in  the  Capitol-seat ; 
Where  Order  is  chaos,  and  Justice  is  gammon, 

And  yet  there's  no  Bacon  to  read  or  to  eat ! 
Let  Famine  stalk  gaunt  and  ungainly  around, 

So  thin  that  his  features  you  scarce  can  behold, — 
Who'd  live  upon  bread  at  an  ounce  for  a  pound  ? 

Or  exchange  for  potatoes  his  carats  of  gold  ? 

3. 

Hurrah  for  the  country  where  Ceres  and  Hymen 

Are  driven  abashed  from  the  bountiful  soil, 
And  Music's  unheard,  save  the  musical  chiming 

Of  pickaxe  and  pan  in  the  clatter  of  toil. 
Who  cares  for  your  dull  academical  lore  ? 

Or  would  seek  for  a  single  philosopher's  stone, 
When  out  of  the  heaps  of  auriferous  ore 

He  can  fill  up  his  pockets  with  '  rocks '  of  his  own  ? 

4. 

Hurrah  for  the  country  where  Plutus  is  chief, 
And  where  for  a  wonder  especially  odd, 

His  worshippers  freely  avow  their  belief, 

And  are  never  ashamed  to  acknowledge  their  god ! 


THE    TIMES.  147 

Where  the  currency's  ruled  by  a  natural  law, 
And  Biddies  and  Barings  are  voted  no  thanks, 

Where,  in  spite  of  the  heavy,  perpetual  draw, 
There's  always  abundance  of  gold  in  the  Banks  ! 

5. 

If  a  brother  seduced  by  our  precious  estate, 

And  mad  with  the  frenzy  that  lucre  inspires, 
Should  hit  us,  some  day,  on  the  back  of  the  pate, 

With  a  heartier  thump  than  affection  requires, 
And  our  bodies  be  hid  in  the  glittering  dust, — 

What  matters  the  incident  ?  why  should  we  care  ? 
To  die  very  rich  is  the  national  lust, 

To  be  '  buried  in  gold '  is  the  popular  prayer  ! 

6. 

Then  away  with  all  doubting  and  fanciful  ills, 

Away  with  impressions  that  duty  would  print, 
The  Pactolian  drops  that  affection  distils 

Can  never  be  coined  into  drops  of  the  mint ! 
So  hurrah  for  the  land  where  the  moor  and  the  mountain 

Are  sparkling  with  treasures  no  tongue  can  unfold, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  river  and  spray  of  the  fountain, 

Are  bright  with  the  glitter  of  genuine  gold  ! 


148  THE    TIMES. 

Let  others,  dazzled  by  the  shining  ore, 
Delve  in  the  dirt  to  gather  golden  store. 
Let  others,  patient  of  the  menial  toil 
And  daily  suffering,  seek  the  precious  spoil ; 
While  most  shall  struggle  through  the  weary  years, 
With  naught  of  Midas  save  his  ample  ears  ! 
No  hero  I,  in  such  a  case  to  brave 
Hunger  and  pain,  the  robber  and  the  grave. 
I'll  work,  instead,  exempt  from  hate  and  harm, 
The  fruitful  '  placers '  of  my  mountain-farm, 
Where  the  bright  ploughshare  opens  richest  veins, 
From  whence  shall  issue  countless  golden  grains, 
Which,  in  the  fulness  of  the  year,  shall  come 
In  bounteous  sheaves,  to  bless  my  harvest-home ! 

But,  haply,  good  may  come  of  mining  yet ; 
'Twill  help  to  pay  the  nation's  foreign  debt ; 
'Twill  further  liberal  arts ;  plate  rings  and  pins  ; 
Gild  books  and  coaches,  mirrors,  signs  and  sins ; 
'Twill  cheapen  pens  and  pencils,  and  perchance 
May  give  us  honest  dealing  for  Finance. 
(That  magic  art,  unknown  to  darker  times 
When  fraud  and  falsehood  were  reputed  crimes, 
Whose  curious  laws  with  nice  precision  teach 
How  whole  estates  are  made  from  parts  of  speech ; 


THE    TIMES.  149 

How  lying  rags  for  honest  coin  shall  pass, 
And  foreign  gold  be  paid  in  native  brass  !) 
'Twill  save,  perhaps,  each  deep-indebted  State 
From  all  temptation  to  '  repudiate,' 
Till  Time  restore  our  precious  credit  lost, 
And  hush  the  wail  of  Peter  Plymley's  ghost ! 3 

But  lest,  0  Muse,  thy  weary  friends  complain 
Thou  lovest  overmuch  the  harsh  satiric  strain  ; 
Perversely  pleased  with  hateful  themes  alone, 
And  ever  singing  in  a  scolding  tone, 
E'en  change  the  note,  and  dedicate  thy  lays 
For  one  brief  moment  to  discerning  praise. 

While  drones  and  dreaming  optimists  protest 
'  The  worst  is  well,  and  all  is  for  the  best ; ' 
And  sturdy  croakers  chant  the  counter  song, 
That  *  man  grows  worse,  and  every  thing  is  wrong  ; ' 
Truth,  as  of  old,  still  loves  a  golden  mean, 
And  shuns  extremes  to  walk  erect  between ! 
The  world  improves  ;  with  slow,  unequal  pace, 
'  The  Good  Time's  coming'  to  our  hapless  race. 
The  general  tide  beneath  the  refluent  surge 
Rolls  on,  resistless,  to  its  destined  verge  ! 
Unfriendly  hills  no  longer  interpose  4 
As  stubborn  walls  to  geographic  foes, 


150  THE    TIMES. 

Nor  envious  streams  run  only  to  divide 
The  hearts  of  brethren  ranged  on  either  side. 
Promethean  Science,  with  untiring  eye 
Searching  the  mysteries  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
And  cunning  Art,  with  strong  and  plastic  hand 
To  work  the  marvels  Science  may  command  ; 
And  broad-winged  Commerce,  swift  to  carry  o'er 
Earth's  countless  blessings  to  her  farthest  shore, — 
These,  and  no  German,  nor  Genevan  sage, 
These  are  the  great  reformers  of  the  age  ! 

See  Art,  exultant  in  her  stately  car, 
On  Nature's  Titans  wage  triumphant  war  ! 
While  e'en  the  Lightnings  by  her  wondrous  skill 
Are  tamed  for  heralds  of  her  sovereign  will ! 
Old  Ocean's  breast  a  new  invader  feels, 
And  heaves  in  vain  to  clog  her  iron  wheels  ; 
In  vain  the  Forests  marshal  all  their  force, 
And  Mountains  rise  to  stay  her  onward  course  ; 
From  out  her  path  each  bold  opposer  hurled, 
She  throws  her  girdle  round  a  captive  world  ! 

I've  kept  my  promise.     Of  a  prosy  song 
Men  want  but  little,  nor  that  little  long 
Yet  even  dulness  may  afford  relief 
On  some  occasions,  if  it's  only  brief ; 


THE   TIMES.  151 

As  transient  cloudlets  soothe  the  aching  sight, 
Blind  with  the  dazzle  of  untempered  light ! 
'Tis  something  that  my  Pegasus,  though  slow, 
Don't  stand  curvetting  when  he's  bid  to  go ; 
And  clear  at  least  of  one  egregious  fault, 
Knows  like  a  Major  when  and  where  to  halt ! 
If  in  his  flight  he  ventured  not  to  soar 
"Where  Helios'  son,  too  rashly,  went  before, 
(A  pregnant  hint  for  feeble  bards  who  dare 
The  awful  heights  beyond  their  native  air,) 
'Twas  no  dull  spirit  held  the  nag  in  check, 
But  only  mercy  for  his  rider's  neck,  — 
Whom,  were  he  lost  among  the  fogs  that  lie 
Between  the  empyrean  and  the  nether  sky, 
And  headlong  hurled  to  some  Bo3otian  deep, 
No  pitying  nymphs  had  gathered  round  to  weep  ! 5 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1.    Page  143. 

While  the  dear  countrjt,  as  (Tie  reader  learns, 
Is  saved  or  ruined  in  quadrennial  turns, 

It  is  certainly  very  notable  that  the  difference  between  the  country's  '  ruin '  and '  salva- 
tion '  by  the  vicissitudes  of  politics,  is  so  little  obvious  to  the  mere  observer  of  national 
affairs,  that  he  would  scarcely  know  when  to  weep  or  rejoice,  but  for  the  timely  infor- 
mation afforded  by  his  party  newspaper! 


NOTE  2.   Page  144. 

While  their  otm  thoughts  the  wetchesfear  to  speak, 
A'ot  Sundays  only,  but  throughout  the  week. 

An  allusion  to  the  Scriptural  injunction,  'not  to  speak  one's  own  words'  on  the  Sab- 
bath day. 

NOTE  3.   Page  149. 
Anil  hush  the  wail  of  Peter  Plymley's  ghost. 

Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  the  English  author  and  wit,  lately  deceased,  who  having  speculated 
In  Pennsylvania  Bonds  to  the  damage  of  his  estate,  berated '  the  rascally  repudiators '  with 
much  spirit,  and  lamented  his  losses  in  many  excellent  jests. 


NOTE  4.    Page  149. 


053) 


longer  interpose 
Ax  stubborn  walls  to  geographic  foe*, 
3<>r  enrinus  gt  reran*  run  on!;/  to  tliride 
The  hearts  of  brethren  ramjed  on  cither  side. 


154  NOTES. 


Land*  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.    Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one.1 


NOTK  S.    Page  151. 
2$~o  pitying  nymphs  had  gathered  round  to  weep, 

It  is  a  part  of  the  fable  of  Phasthon,  the  son  of  Helios,  of  whom  mention  is  made  a  few 
lines  above,  that,  when  he  had  fallen  from  the  sky  and  was  drowned  in  the  river  Eridanus, 
his  sisters,  the  Heliades,  assembling  on  the  shore,  lamented  his  fate  in  tears,  which  were 
Changed  to  amber  as  they  fell. 


CARMEN  LJETUM  : 


Becited,  after  dinner,  before  the  Alumni  of  Middlebury  College,  at  their  Semi-centennial 
Celebration,  August  22d,  1850. 


A  RIGHT  loving  welcome,  my  true-hearted  Brothers, 
Who  have  come  out  to  visit  the  kindest  of  mothers ; 
You  may  think  as  you  will,  but  there  isn't  a  doubt 
Alma  Mater  rejoices,  and  knows  you  are  out ! 
Rejoices  to  see  you  in  gratitude  here, 
Returning  to  honor  her  fiftieth  year. 
And  while  the  good  lady  is  so  overcome 
With  maternal  emotion,  she's  stricken  quite  dumb, 
(A  thing,  I  must  own,  that's  enough  to  perplex 
A  shallow  observer,  who  thinks  that  the  sex, 
Whatever  may  be  their  internal  revealings, 
Can  never  be  pained  with  unspeakable  feelings,) 
Indulge  me,  dear  Brothers,  nor  think  me  ill-bred, 
If  I  venture  a  moment  to  speak  in  her  stead. 

(155) 


156  CARilEN   LjETUlT. 

I,  who,  though  the  humblest  and  homeliest  one, 

Feel  the  natural  pride  of  a  dutiful  son, 

And  esteem  it  to-day  the  profoundest  of  joys, 

That,  not  less  than  yourselves,  I  am  one  of  the  boys ! 

First  as  to  her  health,  which,  I'm  sorry  to  say, 
Has  been  better,  no  doubt,  than  she  finds  it  to-day ; 
Yet  when  you  reflect  she's  been  somewhat  neglected, 
She's  really  as  well  as  could  well  be  expected  ; 
And,  spite  of  ill-treatment  and  premature  fears, 
Is  a  hearty  old  lady,  for  one  of  her  years. 
Indeed,  I  must  tell  you  a  bit  of  a  tale, 
To  show  you  she's  feeling  remarkably  hale  ; 
How  she  turned  up  her  nose,  but  a  short  time  ago, 
At  a  rather  good-looking,  importunate  beau, 
And  rrow  she  refused  with  a  princess-like  carriage, 
*  A  very  respectable  offer  of  marriage  ! ' 1 

You  see,  my  dear  Brothers,  a  neighboring  College, 
Who  values  himself  on  the  depth  of  his  knowledge, 


1  Allusion  is  had  in  this,  and  subsequent  lines,  to  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  unite  Middlebury  College  with  the  University  of  Vermont. 
The  affair  is  here  treated  with  the  license  of  a  dinner-poem,  and  with 
the  partiality  permitted  to  the  occasion. 


CARMEN    L^ETUM.  157 

With  a  prayer  for  her  love,  and  eye  to  her  land, 

Walked  up  to  the  lady  and  offered  his  hand. 

For  a  minute  or  so,  she  was  all  in  a  flutter, 

And  had  not  a  word  she  could  audibly  utter ; 

For  she  felt  in  her  bosom,  beyond  all  concealing, 

A  kind  of  a  —  sort  of  a  —  widow-like  feeling  ! 

But  recovering  soon  from  the  delicate  shock, 

She  held  up  her  head  like  an  old-fashioned  clock, 

And  with  proper  composure,  went  on  and  denned 

In  suitable  phrases,  the  state  of  her  mind  ; 

Said  she  wouldn't  mind  changing  her  single  condition, 

Could  she  fairly  expect  to  improve  her  position ; 

And  thus,  by  some  words  of  equivocal  scope, 

Gave  her  lover  decided  '  permission  to  hope.' 

It  were  idle  to  talk  of  the  billing  and  cooing 

The  amorous  gentleman  used  in  his  wooing  ; 

Or  how  she  replied  to  his  pressing  advances, 

His  oscular  touches  and  ocular  glances  ;  — 

'Tis  enough  that  his  courtship,  by  all  that  is  known, 

Was  quite  the  old  story,  and  much  like  your  own ! 

Thus  the  matter  went  on,  till  the  lady  found  out, 
One  very  fine  day,  what  the  rogue  was  about,  — 
That  all  that  he  wanted  was  merely  the  power 
By  marital  license  to  pocket  her  dower, 


158  CARMEN    L^ETUM. 

And  then  to  discard  her  in  sorrow  and  shame, 

Bereaved  of  her  home  and  her  name  and  her  fame. 

In  deep  indignation  she  turned  on  her  heel, 

With  such  withering  scorn  as  a  lady  might  feel 

For  a  knave,  who,  in  stealing  her  miniature  case, 

Should  take  the  gold  setting,  and  leave  her  the  face  ! 

But  soon  growing  calm  as  the  breast  of  the  deep, 

When  the  breezes  are  hushed  that  the  waters  may  sleep, 

She  sat  in  her  chair,  like  a  dignified  elf, 

And  thus,  while  I  listened,  she  talked  to  herself:  — 

*  Nay,  'twas  idle  to  think  of  so  foolish  a  plan 

As  a  match  with  this  pert  University-man, 

For  I  haven't  a  chick  but  would  redden  with  shame, 

At  the  very  idea  of  my  losing  my  name  ; 

And  would  feel  that  no  sorrow  so  heavy  could  come 

To  his  mother,  as  losing  her  excellent  home. 

'Tis  true  I  am  weak,  but  my  children  are  strong, 

And  won't  see  me  suffer  privation  or  wrong ; 

So,  away  with  the  dream  of  connubial  joys, 

I'll  stick  to  the  homestead,  and  look  to  the  boys  ! ' 

How  joyous,  my  friends,  is  the  cordial  greeting 
Which  gladdens  the  heart  at  a  family  meeting  ; 
When  brothers  assemble  at  Friendship's  old  shrine, 
To  look  at  the  present,  and  talk  of  '  Lang  Syne  ! ' 


159 


Ah  !  well  I  remember  the  halcyon  years, 

Too  earnest  for  laughter,  too  pleasant  for  tears, 

When  life  was  a  boon  in  yon  classical  court, 

Though  lessons  were  long,  and  though  commons  were 

short  ! 

Ah  !  well  I  remember  those  excellent  men, 
Professors  and  tutors,  who  reigned  o'er  us  then  ; 
Who  guided  our  feet  over  Science's  bogs, 
And  led  us  quite  safe  through  Philosophy's  fogs. 
Ah  !  well  I  remember  the  President's  *  face, 
As  he  sat  at  the  lecture  with  dignified  grace, 
And  neatly  unfolded  the  mystical  themes 
Of  various  deep  metaphysical  schemes,  — 
How  he  brightened  the  path  of  his  studious  flock, 
As  he  gave  them  a  key  to  that  wonderful  Locke  ; 
How  he  taught  us  to  feel  it  was  fatal  indeed, 
With  too  much  reliance  to  lean  upon  Reid  ; 
That  Stewart  was  sounder,  but  wrong  at  the  last, 
From  following  his  master  a  little  too  fast,  — 
Then  closed  the  discourse  in  a  scholarly  tone, 
With  a  clear  and  intelligent  creed  of  his  own. 
That  the  man  had  his  faults  it  were  safe  to  infer,  — 
Though  I  really  don't  recollect  what  they  were,  — 

*  Joshua  Bates,  D.  D. 


160 


I  barely  remember  this  one  little  truth, 
When  his  case  was  discussed  by  the  critical  youth, 
The  Seniors  and  Freshmen  were  sure  to  divide, 
And  the  former  were  all  on  the  President's  side  ! 

And  well  I  remember  another,  whose  praise 
Were  a  suitable  theme  for  more  elegant  lays  ; 
But  even  in  numbers  ungainly  and  rough, 
I  must  mention  the  name  of  our  glorious  HOUGH  ! 
Who  does  not  remember  ?  for  who  can  forget, 
Till  Memory's  star  shall  forever  have  set, 
How  he  sat  in  his  place,  unaffected  and  bold, 
And  taught  us  more  truths  than  the  lesson  had  told  ? 
Gave  a  lift  to  '  Old  NOL,'  for  the  love  of  the  right, 
And  a  slap  at  the  Stuarts,  with  cordial  spite  ; 
And  quite  in  the  teeth  of  conventional  rules*, 
Hurled  his  adjectives  down  upon  tyrants  and  fools  ? 
But,  chief,  he  excelled  in  his  proper  vocation 
Of  giving  the  classics  a  classic  translation  ; 
In  Latin  and  Greek  he  was  almost  oracular, 
And,  what's  more  to  his  praise,  understood  the  vernacular 
Oh  !  'twas  pleasant  to  hear  him  make  English  of  Greek, 
Till  you  felt  that  no  tongue  was  inherently  weak  ; 
While  Horace  in  Latin  seemed  quite  understated, 
And  rejoiced  like  old  Enoch  in  being  translated  ! 


CARMEN   L.ETUM.  161 

And  others  there  were,  but  the  hour  would  fail, 
To  bring  them  all  up  in  historic  detail ; 
And  yet  I  would  give,  ere  the  moment  has  fled, 
A  sigh  for  the  absent,  a  tear  for  the  dead. 
There's  not  one  of  them  all,  where'er  he  may  rove, 
In  the  shadows  of  earth,  or  the  glories  above, 
In  the  home  of  his  birth,  or  in  lands  far  away, 
But  comes  back  to  be  kindly  remembered  to-day  ! 

One  little  word  more,  and  my  duty  is  done ;  — — 
A  health  to  our  Mother,  from  each  mother's  son ! 
Unfading  in  beauty,  increasing  in  strength, 
May  she  flourish  in  health  through  the  century's  length  1 
And  next  when  her  children  come  round  her  to  boast, 
May  Esto  perpetua  then  be  the  toast ! 
11 


THE   DEVIL   OF  NAMES. 

A   LEGEND. 

AT  an  old-fashioned  inn  with  a  pendulous  sign, 

Once  graced  with  the  head  of  the  king  of  the  kine, 

But  innocent  now  of  the  slightest '  design,' 

Save  calling  low  people  to  spurious  wine  — 

While  the  villagers,  drinking  and  playing  '  all  fours,' 

And  cracking  small  jokes,  with  vociferous  roars, 

Were  talking  of  horses,  and  hunting,  and  —  scores 

Of  similar  topics  a  bar-room  adores, 

But  which  rigid  morality  greatly  deplores, 

Till  as  they  grew  high  in  their  bacchanal  revels, 

They  fell  to  discoursing  of  witches  and  devils  — 

A  neat  single  rap, 

Just  the  ghost  of  a  tap, 
That  would  scarcely  have  wakened  a  flea  from  his  nap, 

(169) 


THE    DEVIL    OF   NAMES.       *  163 

Not  at  all  in  its  sound  like  your  '  Rochester  Knocking,' 
(Where  asses  in  herds  are  diurnally  flocking,) 
But  twice  as  mysterious,  and  vastly  more  shocking, 
Was  heard  at  the  door  by  the  people  within, 
Who  stopped  in  a  moment  their  clamorous  din, 
And  ceased  in  a  trice  from  their  jokes  and  their  gin ; 

When  who  should  appear 

But  an  odd-looking  stranger  somewhat  '  in  the  sere,' 
(He  seemed  at  the  least  in  his  sixtieth  year,) 
And  he  limped  in  a  manner  exceedingly  queer, 
Wore  breeches  uncommonly  wide  in  the  rear, 
And  his  nose  was  turned  up  with  a  comical  sneer, 
And  he  had  in  his  eye  a  most  villanous  leer, 
Quite  enough  to  make  any  one  tremble  with  fear ! 

Whence  he  came, 

And  what  was  his  name, 
And  what  his  purpose  in  venturing  out, 
And  whether  his  lameness  was  '  gammon '  or  gout, 
Or  merely  fatigue  from  strolling  about, 
Were  questions  involved  in  a  great  deal  of  doubt  — 

When  taking  a  chair, 

With  a  sociable  air, 

Like  that  which  your  '  Uncle '  's  accustomed  to  wear, 
Or  a  broker  determined  to  sell  you  a  share 
In  his  splendid  'New  England  Gold-mining'  affair, 
He  opened  his  mouth  and  went  on  to  declare 


164  •          THE    DEVIL    OF    NAMES. 

That  he  was  a  devil  — '  The  devil  you  are  ! ' 

Cried  one  of  the  guests  assembled  there, 

"With  a  sudden  start,  and  a  frightened  stare  ! 

*  Nay,  don't  be  alarmed,'  the  stranger  exclaims, 

'At  the  name  of  the  devil  —  Tin  the  Devil  of  Names  ! 

You'll  wonder  why 

Such  a  devil  as  I, 

Who  ought,  you  would  say,  to  be  devilish  shy, 
Should  venture  in  here  with  never  a  doubt, 
And  let  the  best  of  his  secrets  out ; 

But  mind  you,  my  boys, 

It's  one  of  the  joys 

Of  the  cunningest  woman  and  craftiest  man, 
To  run  as  quickly  as  ever  they  can, 
And  put  a  confidant  under  ban 
Not  to  publish  their  favorite  plan ! 

And  even  the  de'il 

Will  sometimes  feel 
A  little  of  that  remarkable  zeal, 
And  (when  it's  safe)  delights  to  tell 
The  very  deepest  arcana  of —  well  — 
Besides,  my  favor  this  company  wins, 
For  I  value  next  to  capital  sins, 
Those  out-and-outers  who  revel  in  inns ! 

So,  not  to  delay, 

I'm  going  to  say 


THE   DEVIL    OF   NAMES.  165 

In  the  very  fullest  and  frankest  way, 
All  about  my  honors  and  claims, 
Projects  and  plans,  and  objects  and  aims, 
And  why  I'm  called  "  The  Devil  of  Names  !  " 

I  cheat  by  false  graces, 

And  duplicate  faces, 

And  treacherous  praises, 
And  by  hiding  bad  things  under  plausible  phrases ! 

I'll  give  you  a  sample, 

By  way  of  example  — 
Here's  a  bottle  before  me,  will  suit  to  a  T 
For  a  nice  illustration  —  this  liquor,  d'ye  see, 
Is  the  water  of  death,  though  topers  agree 
To  think  it,  and  drink  it  as  pure  "  eau  de  vie  ;  " 
I  know  what  it  is  —  that's  sufficient  for  rne  ! 
For  the  blackest  of  sins,  and  crimes,  and  shames, 
I  find  soft  words  and  innocent  names. 
The  Hells  devoted  to  Satan's  games 
I  christen  "Saloons"  and  "Halls,"  and  then, 
By  another  contrivance  of  mine  again, 
They're  only  haunted  by  "  sporting  men"  — 
A  phrase  which  many  a  gamester  begs, 
In  spite  of  the  saw  that  "  eggs  is  eggs," 
To  whiten  his  nigritudinous  legs  ! 


166  THE   DEVIL    OF    NAMES. 

'  To  debauchees  I  graciously  grant 
The  favor  to  be  "  a  little  gallant," 
And  soften  vicious  vagrancy  down, 
By  civilly  speaking  of  "  men  about  town  ;  " 

There's  cheating  and  lying 

In  selling  and  buying, 

And  all  sorts  of  frauds  and  dishonest  exactions, 
I've  brought  to  the  smallest  of  moral  infractions, 
Merely  by  naming  them  "  business  transactions  ! 
There's  swindling,  now,  is  vastly  more  fine 
As  "  Banking  "  —  a  lucky  invention  of  mine, 
Worth  ten  in  the  old  diabolical  line ! 

'  In  lesser  matters  it's  all  the  same, 
I  gain  the  thing  by  yielding  the  name  ; 
It's  really  quite  the  broadest  of  jokes  — 
But,  on  my  honor,  there's  plenty  of  folks 
So  uncommonly  fond  of  verbal  cloaks, 
They  can't  enjoy  the  dinners  they  eat, 
Court  the  "  muse  of  the  twinkling  feet," 
Laugh  or  sing,  or  do  any  thing  meet 
For  Christian  people,  without  a  cheat 
To  make  their  happiness  quite  complete  ! 
The  Boston  saints 
Are  fond  of  these  feints  ; 


THE   DEVIL    OF   NAMES.  167 

A  theatre  rouses  the  loudest  complaints, 

Till  it's  thoroughly  purged  from  pestilent  taints, 

By  the  charm  of  a  name  and  a  pious  Te  Deum  — 

Yet  they  patronize  actors,  and  handsomely  fee  'em  ! 

Keep  (shade  of  "  the  Howards  ! "  (a  gay  "  Athenaeum," 

And  have,  above  all,  a  harmless  "  Museum," 

Where  folks  who  love  plays  may  religiously  see  'em  ! 

*  But  leaving  a  trifle  which  costs  me  more  trouble 
By  far  than  the  worth  of  so  flimsy  a  bubble, 
I  come  to  a  matter  which  really  claims 
The  studious  care  of  the  Devil  of  Names. 
There's  "  Charity  "  now  — ' 

But  the  lecture  was  done, 
Like  old  Goody  Morey's,  when  scarcely  begun  ; 
The  devil's  discourse  by  its  serious  teaching 
Had  set  'em  a-snoring,  like  regular  preaching ! 
One  look  of  disdain  on  the  sleepers  he  threw, 
As  in  bitter  contempt  of  the  slumbering  crew, 
And  the  devil  had  vanished  without  more  ado  — 
A  trick,  I  suspect,  that  he  seldom  plays  you ! 


T  RAVE  STIES 


12 


PHAETHON ; 

OR   THE   AMATEUR    COACHMAN. 

DAN  PHAETHON,  —  so  the  histories  run,  — 
Was  a  jolly  young  chap,  and  a  son  of  the  SUN  ; 
Or  rather  of  PHCEBUS, —  but  as  to  his  mother, 
Genealogists  make  a  deuse  of  a  pother, 
Some  going  for  one,  and  some  for  another  ! 
For  myself,  I  must  say,  as  a  careful  explorer, 
This  roaring  young  blade  was  the  son  of  AURORA  ! 

Now  old  Father  PHOEBUS,  ere  railways  begun 

To  elevate  funds  and  depreciate  fun, 

Drove  a  very  fast  coach  by  the  name  of  '  THE  SUN 

Running,  they  say, 

Trips  every  day, 

(On  Sundays  and  all,  in  a  heathenish  way,) 
All  lighted  up  with  a  famous  array 

(171) 


172  PHAETHON. 

Of  lanterns  that  shone  with  a  brilliant  display, 
And  dashing  along  like  a  gentleman's  '  shay,' 
With  never  a  fare,  and  nothing  to  pay  ! 
Now  PHAETHON  begged  of  his  doting  old  father, 
To  grant  him  a  favor,  and  this  the  rather, 
Since  some  one  had  hinted,  the  youth  to  annoy, 
That  he  wasn't  by  any  means  PHCEBUS'S  boy  ! 
Intending,  the  rascally  son  of  a  gun, 
To  darken  the  brow  of  the  son  of  the  SUN  ! 

*  By  the  terrible  Styx  ! '  said  the  angry  sire, 
While  his  eyes  flashed  volumes  of  fury  and  fire, 

*  To  prove  your  reviler  an  infamous  liar, 

I  swear  I  will  grant  you  whate'er  you  desire  ! ' 

'  Then  by  my  head,' 

The  youngster  said, 

'  I'll  mount  the  coach  when  the  horses  are  fed !  - 
For  there's  nothing  I'd  choose,  as  I'm  alive, 
Like  a  seat  on  the  box,  and  a  dashing  drive  ! ' 

'  Nay,  PHAETHON,  don't,  — 

I  beg  you  won't,  — 

Just  stop  a  moment  and  think  upon't ! ' 
1  You're  quite  too  young,'  continued  the  sage, 
'  To  tend  a  coach  at  your  tender  age  ! 

Besides,  you  see, 

'Twill  really  be 
Your  first  appearance  on  any  stage  ! 


PHAETHOX.  173 

Desist,  my  child, 

The  cattle  are  wild, 

And  when  their  mettle  is  thoroughly  "  riled," 
Depend  upon't,  the  coach'll  be  "  spiled"  — 
They're  not  the  fellows  to  draw  it  mild ! 

Desist,  I  say, 

You'll  rue  the  day,  — 
So  mind,  and  don't  be  foolish,  PHA  ! ' 

But  the  youth  was  proud, 

And  swore  aloud, 

'Twas  just  the  thing  to  astonish  the  crowd, — 
He'd  have  the  horses  and  wouldn't  be  cowed  ! 
In  vain  the  boy  was  cautioned  at  large, 
He  called  for  the  chargers,  unheeding  the  charge, 
And  vowed  that  any  young  fellow  of  force, 
Could  manage  a  dozen  coursers,  of  course  ! 
Now  PHCEBUS  felt  exceedingly  sorry 
He  had  given  his  word  in  such  a  hurry, 
But  having  sworn  by  the  Styx,  no  doubt 
He  was  in  for  it  now,  and  couldn't  back  out. 
So  calling  PHAETHON  up  in  a  trice, 
He  gave  the  youth  a  bit  of  advice  :  — 

'  "  Parce  stimuHs,  utere  loris  !  " 
(A  "  stage  direction,"  of  which  the  core  is, 


174  PHAETHON. 

Don't  use  the  whip,  —  they're  ticklish  things, — 
But,  whatever  you  do,  hold  on  to  the  strings!) 
Remember  the  rule  of  the  Jehu-tribe  is, 

"  Medio  tulissimus  ibis," 

(As  the  Judge  remarked  to  a  rowdy  Scotchman, 
Who  was  going  to  quod  between  two  watchmen  !) 
So  mind  your  eye,  and  spare  your  goad, 
Be  shy  of  the  stones,  and  keep  in  the  road  ! ' 

Now  PHAETHON,  perched  in  the  coachman's  place, 

Drove  off  the  steeds  at  a  furious  pace, 

Fast  as   coursers  running  a  race, 

Or  bounding  along  in  a  steeple-chase  ! 

Of  whip  and  shout  there  was  no  lack, 

'  Crack  —  whack  — 

Whack  —  crack ' 

Resounded  along  the  horses'  back  !  — 
Frightened  beneath  the  stinging  lash, 
Cutting  their  flanks  in  many  a  gash, 
On  —  on  they  sped  as  swift  as  a  flash, 
Through  thick  and  thin  away  they  dash, 
(Such  rapid  driving  is  always  rash  !) 
When  all  at  once,  with  a  dreadful  crash, 
The  whole  '  establishment '  went  to  smash  ! 

And  PHAETHON,  he, 

As  all  agree, 


rHAETHON.  175 


Off  the  coach  was  suddenly  hurled, 
Into  a  puddle,  and  out  of  the  world  ! 


MORAL. 

Don't  rashly  take  to  dangerous  courses,  — 
Nor  set  it  down  in  your  table  of  forces, 
That  any  one  man  equals  any  four  horses  ! 

Don't  swear  by  the  Styx  !  — 

It's  one  of  OLD  NICK'S 

Diabolical  tricks 

To  get  people  into  a  regular  '  fix,' 
And  hold  'em  there  as  fast  as  bricks  ! 


PYBAMUS  AND  THISBE. 

THIS  tragical  tale,  which,  they  say,  is  a  true  one, 
Is  old,  but  the  manner  is  wholly  a  new  one. 
One  Ovid,  a  writer  of  some  reputation, 
Has  told  it  before  in  a  tedious  narration  ; 
In  a  style,  to  be  sure,  of  remarkable  fulness, 
But  which  nobody  reads  on  account  of  its  dulness. 

Young  PETER  PYRAMITS  —  I  call  him  Peter, 
Not  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme  or  metre, 
But  merely  to  make  the  name  completer  — 
For  PETER  lived  in  the  olden  times, 
And  in  one  of  the  worst  of  Pagan  climes 
That  flourish  now  in  classical  fame, 

Long  before 

Either  noble  or  boor 

Had  such  a  thing  as  a  Christian  name  — 
Young  PETER  then  was  a  nice  young  beau 
As  any  young  lady  would  wish  to  know  ; 


* 

PTRAMUS    AND    THISBE.  177 

In  years,  I  ween, 

He  was  rather  green, 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  just  eighteen, — 
A  trifle  too  short,  and  a  shaving  too  lean, 
But '  a  nice  young  man  '  as  ever  was  seen, 
And  fit  to  dance  with  a  May-day  queen ! 

Now  PETER  loved  a  beautiful  girl 
As  ever  insnared  the  heart  of  an  earl, 
In  the  magical  trap  of  an  auburn  curl, — 
A  little  Miss  THISBE  who  lived  next  door, 
(They  slept  in  fact  on  the  very  same  floor, 
With  a  wall  between  them,  and  nothing  more, — 
Those  double  dwellings  were  common  of  yore,) 
And  they  loved  each  other,  the  legends  say 
In  that  very  beautiful,  bountiful  way, 

That  every  young  maid, 

And  every  young  blade, 
Are  wont  to  do  before  they  grow  staid, 
And  learn  to  love  by  the  laws  of  trade. 
But  alack-a-day,  for  the  girl  and  boy, 
A  little  impediment  checked  their  joy, 
And  gave  them,  a  while,  the  deepest  annoy. 
For  some  good  reason  which  history  cloaks, 
The  match  didn't  happen  to  please  the  old  folks! 
12 


I 

178  PTRAMUS    AND    THISBE. 

So  THISBE'S  father  and  PETER'S  mother 
Began  the  young  couple  to  worry  and  bother, 
And  tried  their  innocent  passion  to  smother 
By  keeping  the  lovers  from  seeing  each  other ! 

But  who  ever  heard 

Of  a  marriage  deterred, 

Or  even  deferred, 
By  any  contrivance  so  very  absurd 
As  scolding  the  boy,  and  caging  his  bird  ?  — 
Now  PETER,  who  wasn't  discouraged  at  all 
By  obstacles  such  as  the  timid  appall, 
Contrived  to  discover  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

Which  wasn't  so  thick 

But  removing  a  brick 

Made  a  passage  —  though  rather  provokingly  small. 
Through  this  little  chink  the  lover  could  greet  her, 
And  secrecy  made  their  courting  the  sweeter, 
While  PETER  kissed  THISBE,  and  THISBE  kissed 

PETER, — 

For  kisses,  like  folks  with  diminutive  souls, 
Will  manage  to  creep  through  the  smallest  of  holes ! 

'Twas  here  that  the  lovers,  intent  upon  love, 

Laid  a  nice  little  plot 

To  meet  at  a  spot 
Near  a  mulberry  tree  in  a  neighboring  grove  ; 


PTRAMUS    AND    THISBE.  179 

For  the  plan  was  all  laid, 

By  the  youth  and  the  maid, 
(Whose  hearts,  it  would  seem,  were  uncommonly  bold 

ones,) 
To  run  off  and  get  married  in  spite  of  the  old  ones. 

In  the  shadows  of  evening,  as  still  as  a  mouse, 
The  beautiful  maiden  slipt  out  of  the  house, 
The  mulberry-tree  impatient  to  find, 
While  PETER,  the  vigilant  matrons  to  blind, 
Strolled  leisurely  out  some  minutes  behind. 

While  waiting  alone  by  the  trysting  tree, 

A  terrible  lion 

As  e'er  you  set  eye  on, 
Came  roaring  along  quite  horrid  to  see, 
And  caused  the  young  maiden  in  terror  to  flee, 
(A  lion's  a  creature  whose  regular  trade  is 
Blood  —  and  *  a  terrible  thing  among  ladies,') 
And  losing  her  veil  as  she  ran  from  the  wood, 
The  monster  bedabbled  it  over  with  blood. 

Now  PETER  arriving,  and  seeing  the  veil 
All  covered  o'er, 
And  reeking  with  gore, 


180  PTRAMUS    AND    THISBE. 

Turned  all  of  a  sudden  exceedingly  pale, 
And  sat  himself  down  to  weep  and  to  wail,  — 
For,  soon  as  he  saw  the  garment,  poor  PETER 
Made  up  his  mind  in  very  short  metre, 
That  THISBE  was  dead,  and  the  lion  had  eat  her ! 

So  breathing  a  prayer, 

He  determined  to  share 

The  fate  of  his  darling, '  the  loved  and  the  lost,' 
And  fell  on  his  dagger,  and  gave  up  the  ghost ! 

Now  THISBE  returning,  and  viewing  her  beau, 
Lying  dead  by  the  veil  (which  she  happened  to -know) 
She  guessed,  in  a  moment,  the  cause  of  his  erring, 

And  seizing  the  knife 

Which  had  taken  his  life, 
In  less  than  a  jiffy  was  dead  as  a  herring  ! 


MORAL. 

Young  gentlemen  !  —  pray  recollect,  if  you  please, 
Not  to  make  assignations  near  mulberry-trees, 
Should  your  mistress  be  missing  it  shows  a  weak  head 
To  be  stabbing  yourself  till  you  know  she  is  dead. 


PTRAMUS   AND    THISBE.  181 

Young  ladies  !  —  you  shouldn't  go  strolling  about 
When  your  anxious  mammas  don't  know  you  are  out, 
And  remember  that  accidents  often  befall 
From  kissing  young  fellows  through  holes  in  the  wall ! 


POLYPHEMUS  AND  ULYSSES. 

A  VERY  remarkable  history  this  is 

Of  one  POLYPHEMUS  and  Mr.  ULYSSES  ; 

The  latter  a  hero  accomplished  and  bold, 

The  former  a  knave  and  a  fright  to  behold,  — 

A  horrid  big  giant  who  lived  in  a  den, 

And  dined,  every  day,  on  a  couple  of  men, 

Ate  a  woman  for  breakfast,  and  (dreadful  to  see  !) 

Had  a  nice  little  baby  served  up  with  his  tea ! 

Indeed,  if  there's  truth  in  the  sprightly  narration 

Of  HOMER,  a  poet  of  some  reputation, 

Or  VIRGIL,  a  writer  but  little  inferior, 

And  in  some  things,  perhaps,  the  other's  superior,  - 

POLYPHEMUS  was  truly  a  terrible  creature 

In  manners  and  morals,  in  form  and  in  feature  ; 

For  law  and  religion  he  cared  not  a  copper, 

And,  in  short,  led  a  life  that  was  very  improper !  — 


POLYPHEMUS   AKD    ULYSSES.  183 

What  made  him  a  very  remarkable  guy, 

Like  the  late  Mr.  THOMPSON,  he'd  only  one  eye  ; 

But  that  was  a  whopper  —  a  terrible  one  — 

'  As  large  (  VIRGIL  says)  as  the  disk  of  the  sun  ! '  — 

A  brilliant,  but  rather  extravagant  figure, 

Which  means,  I  suppose,  that  his  eye  was  much  bigger 

Than  yours  —  or  even  the  orb  of  your  sly 

Old  bachelor-friend  who's  '  a  wife  in  his  eye.' 

ULYSSES,  the  hero  I  mentioned  before, 

Was  shipwrecked,  one  day,  on  the  pestilent  shore, 

Where  the  CYCLOPS  resided,  along  with  their  chief, 

POLYPHEMUS,  the  terrible  man-eating  thief, 

Whose  manners  they  copied,  and  laws  they  obeyed, 

While  driving  their  horrible  cannibal  trade. 

With  many  expressions  of  civil  regret 
That  ULYSSES  had  got  so  unpleasantly  wet, 
With  many  expressions  of  pleasure  profound 
That  all  had  escaped  being  thoroughly  drowned, 
The  rascal  declared  he  was  '  fond  of  the  brave,' 
And  invited  the  strangers  all  home  to  his  cave. 

Here  the  cannibal  king,  with  as  little  remorse 
As  an  omnibus  feels  for  the  death  of  a  horse, 


184:  POLYPHEMUS    AND    ULYSSES. 

Seized,  crushed  and  devoured  a  brace  of  the  Greeks, 

As  a  Welshman  would  swallow  a  couple  of  leeks, 

Or  a  Frenchman,  supplied  with  his  usual  prog, 

Would  punish  the  hams  of  a  favorite  frog  ! 

Dashed  and  smashed  against  the  stones, 

He  broke  their  bodies  and  cracked  their  bones, 

Minding  no  more  their  moans  and  groans, 

Than  the  grinder  heeds  his  organ's  tones  ! 

With  purple  gore  the  pavement  swims, 

While  the  giant  crushes  their  crackling  limbs, 

And  poor  ULYSSES  trembles  with  fright 

At  the  horrid  sound,  and  the  horrid  sight, 

Trembles  lest  the  monster  grim 

Should  make  his  '  nuts  and  raisins '  of  him ! 

And,  really,  since 

The  man  was  a  Prince, 

It's  not  very  odd  that  his  Highness  should  wince, 
(Especially  after  such  very  strong  hints,) 
At  the  cannibal's  manner,  as  rather  more  free 
Than  his  Highness,  at  court,  was  accustomed  to  see  1 

But  the  crafty  Greek,  to  the  tyrant's  hurt, 
(Though  he  didn't  deserve  so  fine  a  dessert,) 
Took  a  dozen  of  wine  from  his  leather  trunk, 
And  plied  the  giant  until  he  was  drunk !  — 


POLYPHEMUS    AND    ULYSSES.  185 

Drunker  than  any  one  you  or  I  know, 

Who  buys  his  '  Rhenish '  with  ready  rhino,  — 

Exceedingly  drunk  — '  sepultus  vino! ' 

Gazing  a  moment  upon  the  sleeper, 
ULYSSES  cried,  '  Let's  spoil  his  peeper  !  — 
'Twill  put  him,  my  boys,  in  a  pretty  trim, 
If  we  can  manage  to  douse  his  glim  ! ' 
So  taking  a  spar  that  was  lying  in  sight 
They  poked  it  into  his  '  forward  light,' 
And  gouged  away  with  furious  spite, 
Ramming  and  jamming  with  all  their  might ! 

In  vain  the  giant  began  to  roar, 

And  even  swore 

That  he  never  before 

Had  met,  in  his  life,  such  a  terrible  bore, — 
They  only  plied  the  auger  the  more 
And  mocked  his  grief  with  the  bantering  cry, 
'  Don't  talk  of  pain  —  ifs  all  in  your  eye  I ' 
Until,  alas  !  for  the  wretched  CYCLOPS, 
He  gives  a  groan,  and  out  his  eye  pops  ! 
Leaving  the  knave,  one  needn't  be  told, 
As  blind  as  a  puppy  of  three  days  old  ! 
13 


186  POLYPHEMUS    AND    ULYSSES. 

The  rest  of  the  tale  I  can't  tell  now  — 
Except  that  ULYSSES  got  out  of  the  row, 
With  the  rest  of  his  crew  —  it's  no  matter  how  ; 
While  old  POLYPHEMUS,  until  he  was  dead,  — 
Which  wasn't  till  many  years  after,  'tis  said,  — 
Had  a  grief  in  his  heart  and  a  hole  in  his  head  ! 


Don't  use  strong  drink,  —  pray  let  me  advise,  — 
It's  bad  for  the  stomach,  and  ruins  the  eyes; 
Don't  impose  upon  sailors  with  land-lubber  tricks, 
Or  you'll  catch  it  some  day,  like  a  thousand  of  bricks  ! 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE. 


SIR  ORPHEUS,  whom  the  poets  have  sung 

In  every  metre  and  every  tongue, 

Was,  you  may  remember,  a  famous  musician  — 

At  least  for  a  youth  in  his  pagan  condition  — 

For  historians  tell  he  played  on  his  shell 

From  morning  till  night  so  remarkably  well 

That  his  music  created  a  regular  spell 

On  trees  and  stones  in  forest  and  dell ! 

What  sort  of  an  instrument  his  could  be 

Is  really  more  than  is  known  to  me  — 

For  none  of  the  books  have  told,  d'ye  see  ! 

It's  very  certain  those  heathen  'swells' 

Knew  nothing  at  all  of  oyster-shells, 

And  it's  clear  Sir  Orpheus  never  could  own  a 

Shell  like  those  they  make  in  Cremona  ; 

But  whatever  it  was,  to  '  move  the  stones ' 

It  must  have  shelled  out  some  powerful  tones, 

(187) 


188  ORPHEUS   AND    EURYDICE. 

And  entitled  the  player  to  rank  in  my  rhyme 
As  the  very  Vieuxtemps  of  the  very  old  time ! 

But,  alas  for  the  joys  of  this  mutable  life ! 
Sir  Orpheus  lost  his  beautiful  wife  — 
Eurydice  —  who  vanished  one  day 
From  Earth,  in  a  very  unpleasant  way  ! 
It  chanced,  as  near  as  I  can  determine, 
Through  one  of  those  vertebrated  vermin 
That  lie  in  the  grass  so  prettily  curled, 
Waiting  to  '  snake '  you  out  of  the  world  ! 
And  the  poets  tell  she  went  to  —  well  — 
A  place  where  Greeks  and  Romans  dwell 
After  they  burst  their  mortal  shell ; 
A  region  that  in  the  deepest  shade  is, 
And  known  by  the  classical  name  of  Hades  — 
A  different  place  from  the  terrible  furnace 
Of  Tartarus,  down  below  Avernus. 

Now,  having  a  heart  uncommonly  stout, 
Sir  Orpheus  didn't  go  whining  about, 
Nor  marry  another,  as  you  would,  no  doubt, 
But  made  up  his  mind  to  fiddle  her  out ! 
But  near  the  gate  he  had  to  wait, 
For  there  in  state  old  Cerberus  sate  — • 


ORPHEUS    AXD    EURYDICE.  189 

A  three-headed  dog,  as  cruel  as  Fate, 
Guarding  the  entrance  early  and  late ; 
A  beast  so  sagacious,  and  very  voracious, 
So  uncommonly  sharp  and  extremely  rapacious, 
That  it  really  may  be  doubted  whether 
He'd  have  his  match,  should  a  common  tether 
Unite  three  aldermen's  heads  together  ! 

But  Orpheus,  not  in  the  least  afraid, 
Tuned  up  his  shell,  and  quickly  essayed 
What  could  be  done  with  a  serenade. 
In  short,  so  charming  an  air  he  played, 
He  quite  succeeded  in  overreaching 
The  cunning  cur,  by  musical  teaching, 
And  put  hinvto  sleep  as  fast  as  preaching! 

And  now  our  musical  champion,  Orpheus, 
Having  given  the  janitor  over  to  Morpheus, 
Went  groping  around  among  the  ladies 
Who  throng  the  dismal  halls  of  Hades, 

Calling  aloud 

To  the  shady  crowd, 
In  a  voice  as  shrill  as  a  martial  fife, 
*  0,  tell  me  where  in  hell  is  my  wife  ! ' 


190  ORPHEUS    AND    EURYDICE. 

(A  natural  question,  'tis  very  plain, 
Although  it  may  sound  a  little  profane.) 

'  Eurydice,  Eu-ryd-i-ce  ! ' 
He  cried  as  loud  as  loud  could  be  — 
(A  singular  sound,  and  funny  withal, 
In  a  place  where  nobody  rides  at  all !) 

*  Eurydice  —  Eurydice  ! 
O,  come,  my  dear,  along  with  me  ! ' 
And  then  he  played  so  remarkably  fine, 
That  it  really  might  be  called  divine  — 

For  who  can  show, 

On  earth  or  below, 
Such  wonderful  feats  in  the  musical  line  ? 

E'en  Tantalus  ceased  from  trying  to.sip 
The  cup  that  flies  from  his  arid  lip  ; 
Ixion,  too,  the  magic  could  feel, 
And,  for  a  moment,  blocked  his  wheel ; 
Poor  Sisyphus,  doomed  to  tumble  and  toss 
The  notable  '  stone  that  gathers  no  moss,' 
Let  go  his  burden,  and  turned  to  hear 
The  charming  sounds  that  ravished  his  ear  ; 
And  even  the  Furies  —  those  terrible  shrews 
Whom  no  one  before  could  ever  amuse  — 


ORPHEUS    AND    EURTDICE.  191 

Those  strong-bodied  ladies  with  strong-minded  views, 
Whom  even  the  devil  would  doubtless  refuse, 
Were  his  majesty  only  permitted  to  choose  — 
Each  felt  for  a  moment  her  nature  desert  her, 
And  wept,  like  a  girl  o'er  the  '  Sorrows  of  Werter  1 ' 

And  still  Sir  Orpheus  chanted  his  song, 
Sweet  and  clear  and  strong  and  long, 

'Eurydice!  — Eurydice!' 
He  cried  as  loud  as  loud  could  be ; 
And  Echo  taking  up  the  word, 
Kept  it  up  till  the  lady  heard, 
And  came  with  joy  to  meet  her  lord. 
And  he  led  her  along  the  infernal  route, 
Until  he  had  got  her  almost  out, 
When,  suddenly  turning  his  head  about, 
(To  take  a  peep  at  his  wife,  no  doubt,) 

He  gave  a  groan, 

For  the  lady  was  gone, 
And  had  left  him  standing  there  all  alone  ! 
For  by  an  oath  the  gods  had  bound 
Sir  Orpheus  not  to  look  around 
Till  he  was  clear  of  the  sacred  ground, 
If  he'd  have  Eurydice  safe  and  sound, 


192  ORPHEUS    AND    EUKYDICE. 

For  the  moment  he  did  an  act  so  rash 
His  wife  would  vanish  as  quick  as  a  flash  ! 


Young  women  !  beware,  for  goodness'  sake, 
Of  every  sort  of  '  sarpent  snake  ; ' 
Remember  the  rogue  is  apt  to  deceive, 
And  played  the  deuse  with  Grandmother  Eve 
Young  men  !  it's  a  critical  thing  to  go 
Exactly  right  with  a  lady  in  tow  ; 
But  when  you  are  in  the  proper  track 
Just  go  ahead,  and  never  look  back ! 


THE    END 


BOSTON,  135  WASHINGTON  STRKKT. 
SKPTEMBLB,  1854. 


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JOSEPH    T.    BUCKINGHAM'S    PERSONAL    MEMOIRS 

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..., 

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